The Promise
by Gillian Middleton
Summary: Kidnapped and imprisoned, Sam & Dean only have each other and their inner resources to get them through. *warning - wincest*
1. Chapter 1

Prologue.

"Sam, I'm telling you, just drop it."

"Why should I?" Sam insisted belligerently. "Why should I always be the one to give up? Why can't he give in, just once?"

"Dad has his reasons, okay? And it makes sense. It wouldn't be fair to a dog to keep it cooped up in the car for all the long drives we take."

"Oh, but it's fair to us?" Sam shot back sarcastically.

Dean rolled his eyes and clumped away down the street.

"I'm serious, Dean. Truckers keep dogs all the time, travelers have dogs, why shouldn't we?"

"Sam, I'm not arguing with you," Dean said, shaking off his brother's hand. "Dad said no, and that's it. There's no point getting into yet another fight with him over it."

"If you'd just be on my side for once," Sam said, thrusting his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders.

"Dude," Dean said reproachfully, stopping in his tracks and peering at his fourteen year old brother's sullen face. "I'm on your side all the time, and you know it."

"Doesn't feel like it." Sam shrugged moodily. "I'm sure if you-"

He stopped and Dean tore his glance away in time to see that a hulking, shadowy figure had lurched out of the alley ahead of him. It pulled out a metal canister and sprayed it into Sam's face, and the boy went down with a yell. Dean reached for the knife in his boot, cursing Dad's rule about packing in busy city streets. Before he could get it out of its sheath, the spray was hitting him full on and he gave a strangled scream, clutching at his throat as the air seemed stolen from his lungs, replaced by fiery hot needles that clawed his skin. It was the last thing he knew for a while.

**The Promise**

**By **Gillian Middleton

Part One

Dean came awake to a burning pain behind his eyes and the soft, cool dampness of a cloth lying on his face. He groped for it clumsily, pressing it into his burning eye sockets, and then hissed as the cloth soothed the fiery irritation. Memory returned sluggishly and he fumbled himself into a sitting position, clenching the cloth in one fist and blinking at his surroundings.

Long seconds passed as he fought to overcome the disconcerting feeling of waking up in a place he'd never seen before in his life. Still struggling with his blurred vision, he blinked rapidly and scanned the room again, desperately willing his brain to take it in.

Rough brick walls. Dim electric strip lighting in one corner. A cracked toilet and basin. A low groan to his left had him wrenching his head around, in time to see Sammy's hand grope for the cloth on his face.

"D-Dean?" Sam cried out, panting in pain as he pressed the cloth to his streaming eyes.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said, coughing a little at the dryness of his mouth and throat. "I'm here."

But where the hell was here? Sam was squinting in the dim light and scanning the room as Dean struggled to take in the details of their prison. Slowly his sluggish brain cleared, and one factor became glaringly apparent.

"Where's the door?" Sam said in a frightened voice.

Dean swung his legs off the bed, noticing his boots were gone and absurdly wishing he'd worn cleaner socks. He took a deep breath and attempted to stand, falling back on his butt the first time.

"Dean?" Sam said, sounding increasingly panicked. "Where's the door?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Dean said, heaving himself to his feet and swaying unsteadily. "Gimme a second to look around, okay?"

"What's to look at?" Sam demanded, thrusting his feet off the bed and groping to a standing position. He swung around, eyes feverishly scanning the brick walls, the sink, the toilet. "There's no door!"

"There must be a way out," Dean insisted, treading unsteadily to the nearest wall and pressing his hand to its rough brick surface. "We're inside, right? There must be a trap door or a hidden door or something."

Dean ran his hands over the cold bricks, fingers searching the old mortar, fingertips stinging as he felt for cracks or the tell-tale whistle of a breeze. On the opposite side of the room, Sam made his way along the wall, wide hands pressing and pushing, around the toilet, past a low wooden cupboard, onto the pipes around the sink.

"There's nothing here!" he exclaimed, stumbling a little in his haste and grabbing hold of the cracked porcelain bowl. "Dean, there's nothing here!"

"Sammy, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Sam shouted, reeling from the wall back to the bed, stumbling to his knees, eyes still red and streaming. "There's no way out, Dean! There's no air!"

Recognizing a panic attack when he saw one, Dean dropped to his knees in front of his little brother, hands catching his shoulders and shaking firmly. Sam's chest rose and fell rapidly. His hands clawed at his throat, eyes wide and distressed.

"Listen to me, Sam!" Dean said loudly, catching his brother's panicked eyes. "There's plenty of air, okay? Look at me, Sam, breathe with me!"

"I can't!" Sam gasped, but Dean shook him again, fingers like claws on young shoulders.

"Yes, you can!" Dean said fiercely. "Breathe, dammit! Now!"

Sam tried to catch his breath, chest still rising and falling raggedly as he struggled to obey his brother.

"Good," Dean praised. "In and out. Deep breaths, Sammy, okay? There, see?"

Sam's strained expression eased as he took breath after breath, stiff shoulders slumping under Dean's hands. "I'm sorry," he muttered, and Dean released him and thumped one shoulder gently.

"Don't worry about it." More unnerved than he wanted his brother to see, he collapsed on the edge of the bed, taking a few deep breaths of his own. "I'm just as spooked as you are, Sam. But we can't freak out, right?"

Sam nodded, eyes darting back around the room. Now that his own eyes had stopped watering, Dean could make out a few more details. The room was about twelve by twelve: concrete floor, stained and cracked plaster ceiling, rough mortar dribbling between rusty red bricks.

Dean's gaze narrowed and he stood and crossed to the wall, running his hands over the mortar.

"What is it?" Sammy said, sniffing and rubbing his sleeve across his face.

"This was mortared from the other side," Dean said slowly, feeling the crumbling substance break off under his fingers. "See how it's not smoothed over here?"

Sam bent and peered at the wall, comparing it to the rest of the brickwork. "He bricked us in," he whispered in horror.

"It must be fast-drying," Dean said, searching his pockets for his pen knife, his keys, anything. "If I can start scraping at it before it gets too hard..."

Quick-witted now his panic had quieted, Sam began to search the room, starting with the cupboard, pulling open cracked wooden drawers and sliding open the doors.

Dean," Sam said lowly, and Dean tore his gaze away from the wall. Sam reached into the cupboard and pulled out a tin, twisting it until the label was illuminated by the dim light.

"Beans. There are cans of food in here."

Dean padded over and took the can, squinting at it. Sam groped in the cupboard and pulled out an old fashioned metal can opener.

"I don't know if this is a good sign or a bad one," Dean mused, turning the can over in his hand.

"Sixty cans," Sam said, finishing his quick tally. "Dean? What does it mean?"

"I don't know. The guy doesn't want us to starve?" He looked at Sam, seeing the questions and fear mirrored in his brother's reddened eyes. "Did you see him? Before he sprayed that stuff in your face?"

Sam shook his head. "Just a shadow." He frowned. "Do you think this has something to do with a job?"

"Dad's not working on a job right now," Dean pointed out.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, like Dad tells us everything."

"He'd have told us if we were in danger, Sam," Dean said sternly, and Sam shrugged again. "Maybe if I'd had my forty-five," Dean lamented, tossing the can onto the dresser. "If I'd just been a little quicker..."

"It all happened so fast." Sam dropped down on the end of the bed. "Do you think he's coming back?"

Dean cast the bricked up wall another look. "I doubt it. Not anytime soon anyway. We're just gonna have to get ourselves out of this."

Sam held up the metal can opener, but Dean shook his head.

"I don't think so. I'm not fond of beans, but it might take a while to get out of here. Or for Dad to find us. Either way, I don't want to risk breaking that."

Sam glanced again at the cupboard. "What about one of the cans? If we empty it and flatten it, maybe we could gouge at the wall?"

So Dean wielded the ancient old can opener while Sam took another look around the room. He found air vents near the floor and reported a narrow metal grate in front of the small opening. He crawled under the narrow wooden cot and then felt around the reinforced wiring from the fluorescent bulb, until Dean nervously told him not to mess with it.

"Unless you think this will be any easier in the dark," he pointed out. Sam grimaced but let the cable be. Finally he examined the small hand basin, turning the faucet on and off, and filling a red plastic mug with water. He gulped it down and refilled it for Dean.

"Water, food, fresh air," Dean catalogued, tipping the beans into two red plastic bowls. "A bed, bathroom facilities." He cast the stained old porcelain fixture a disgusted look, and Sam huffed bitter agreement. "Hell, we've stayed in motels worse than this."

"I think we're underground," Sam said uneasily, looking up at the cracked plaster ceiling. Dean followed his gaze.

"It does smell kind of... earthy," he agreed. "Doesn't matter. We get through the wall and get the hell out of here. Or Dad finds us and gets us the hell out of here. Okay?"

Sam blew out a breath and shrugged. "I guess."

"Eat your beans," Dean ordered, "while I have a crack at this wall. Then you can take your turn."

"I was thinking," Sam said, spooning up the beans with a plastic fork. "Those water pipes. Sound can carry a long way through metal pipes."

Dean flattened the edge of the empty can and began scraping at the dribbling mortar. "You mean a Morse code thing?"

"An SOS maybe," Sam confirmed, shoveling down the cold beans.

"Good thinking, 99." Dean nodded approvingly. "You do that while I scrape. The day should just fly by."

"If it is day."

Dean thought about that. "Yeah."

"Dean, what do you think is going on?" Sam looked so young and frightened, his skin pale even in this dim light. The weight of responsibility for his little brother hung heavy on Dean's shoulders.

"I don't know," Dean said honestly. "We just have to trust that Dad is looking for us. He'll figure it out."

"But why would someone do this? Why-"

"Sammy, I don't know why," Dean interrupted. "I just know Dad would want us to keep our heads and work on getting out of here. Okay?"

They worked in silence for a while, Sam tapping out the SOS with the metal handle of the can opener, Dean methodically scraping away at the mortar. After a few minutes, Dean could hear Sam sniffling, and when he glanced over he caught a glimpse of tears running down his brother's face. He looked away, giving Sam his privacy, fighting tears of his own. He had faith in his father, he really did.

But Dean couldn't help wondering if finding them down here was going to be beyond even John Winchester.

666

The time didn't fly by, but they scraped and tapped and rested until Dean felt as if his arm was going to fall off and Sam was drooping.

"Come on," he ordered, pouring more beans in Sam's bowl and handing it over. "Take a rest and eat. We won't be any good if we drop of exhaustion."

"Do we have enough?" Sam asked, already scooping up the food.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, hiding the fact that he'd given Sam his share from the earlier meal, as well as more than half of this can. "One can split between us, three times a day," Dean calculated, tasting the beans with a grimace. "That's twenty days. We'll be out of here long before that."

"I just don't get why the guy took us," Sam said relentlessly. "I mean, what was the point? Just to wall us up down here and leave us?"

Dean recognized Sam's method of coping, chewing over a subject until he found answers that satisfied him. Dad did the same thing, it was part of what made him a great hunter. "Well, if the dude was after ransom, he picked the wrong family."

"Unless he wants a trunk full of old guns and holy water," Sam agreed. He scraped out the last of the beans and ran his finger around the rim of the bowl, collecting the sauce and savoring it. "Man, I could eat six of these."

"We're on short rations for a while." Dean finished his smaller serving and tossed the bowl onto the bed. "Let's get back to work."

666

Hunger and exhaustion hit them after what Dean figured was another few hours. Without his watch to tell time, he felt lost and disorientated. How long had they been unconscious anyway? Long enough for their kidnapper to drag them out of the alley and bring them here, wherever here was. Then lay them out all nice and neat, even providing washcloths for their eyes. Before bricking them up in this tomb-like room.

Dean shivered, wondering if the guy was experienced at this. Had he done it before, stolen people away? Walled them in? Waited for them to die?

They had yet another meal of cold beans, Dean surreptitiously doling out more for Sam. Then Dean stretched out on the narrow bed, groaning as his aching shoulders made contact with the thin mattress. Sam sat on the edge of the bed beside him, shoulders hunched.

"What do you think Dad's doing right now?" he asked lowly.

"Tearing up town looking for us. Ripping it apart, inch by inch." Dean cast a look at the brickwork he'd labored over for hours. "Brick by brick."

Sam stretched out beside him, and Dean cast him a glance, seeing his brother gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. "You think he called the cops?"

"Once he knows it's nothing supernatural."

Sam met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. "Are we so sure it's not?"

Dean sighed and yawned. "No symbols, runes, sigils. No objects of magic, black or otherwise. If this is some kind of spell or sacrifice, it's the no-frills kind. I don't know, Sammy, it just doesn't feel like a job to me."

Sam chewed his lip. "Me, either," he admitted.

"Don't sound so disappointed. I'm so not in the mood to be sacrificed to some earth-demon tonight."

"Earth-demon?"

"Earthworm demon?" Dean joked and Sam rolled his eyes.

"I just mean, if it was supernatural, Dad would be on the case," Sam explained. "If it was some other-worldly thing then Dad would be the best person in the world to find it. Us. But if this is just some psycho who gets his kicks kidnapping kids off the street..."

Dean wished he could find something positive and reassuring to say. But in truth he'd been thinking the same thing, wondering how long it would take their authority-shy father to give in and go to the cops. Wondering what exactly John Winchester could tell them.

"Yeah," he said softly, and Sam rolled over on his side, presenting his narrow back to Dean's concerned gaze. Closing his eyes, Dean willed himself to sleep, to have a few more hours pass while he was oblivious. To be just those few hours closer to rescue.

Beside him, Sam's shoulders shook a little as he fought to keep his soft crying to himself. Dean clenched his hands, wanting to leave his brother to his privacy, fighting the urge to comfort him like he used to when Sam was little. Sam wasn't like this. Sam was more prone to bad temper than tears. But Sam was only fourteen years old, and Dean was eighteen, and he could feel the tears trembling behind his own eyes as the close quarters of their prison seemed to close around him.

Rolling over on his side, Dean lifted a tentative hand and laid it on Sam's shoulder, and for a second his brother stiffened as if in rejection of the comforting touch. But then he was turning and slamming himself against Dean, hard chin butting his shoulder, thin hands clutching his ribs.

And to Dean he was Sammy again, four years old, running across the rough ground of some rest area. Plump hands held out, tears streaking the dust on his round cheeks.

"Owie, Dean," he'd say, holding out scraped palms for his big brother's inspection.

And Dean would tell him to suck it up, that big boys don't cry, but his hands would take Sammy's little hands and he'd press all-better kisses to damp, sweaty palms. He'd lift Sammy's t-shirt and wipe his eyes before smoothing it back over Sam's round belly. Then Sam would fling dimpled arms around his neck and hug him before haring off again.

Sam was taller and thinner and years older, but his hard chin still pressed against Dean's collar bone, and his tear-streaked cheeks were damp against Dean's throat.

They fell asleep like that.

666

Dean woke first and took the opportunity to use the toilet before Sam woke up, then took another can from the cupboard. To his surprise, it was canned peaches, and in a sudden panic he dragged all the tins out, worried for long seconds that they weren't all full of food. What if they were coffee or something that couldn't be eaten?

Luckily they were all edible, the second layer peaches, the third some kind of Irish stew. Sinking down onto the ground in front of the worn wooden cupboard, Dean pressed his hands to his face. This was all they had, all that stood between them and starvation. Yesterday it had seemed weird that their kidnapper had left cans of food for them. Today it was the most important thing Dean could think of: that Sam could eat, that Sam wouldn't get weak with hunger. Behind him Sam stirred and moaned, and Dean quickly opened a can and ladled the lion's share of peaches into Sam's bowl.

"Shit," Sam groaned from the bed. "I thought it was just a nightmare."

"Nope, sorry," Dean said lightly. "The food situation's looking up, though."

Sam sat up, blinking groggily. "What is it?" he said as Dean waved the dish tantalizingly under his nose.

"It's not beans, which is all you need to know."

Sam took the bowl but didn't start eating. Instead he shifted his legs to the side of the bed and hunched over.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, wondering what the hell he'd do if Sam got sick. "What is it?"

"I have to go," Sam said, eyes darting to the toilet and away. Flags of red painted his pale cheeks, and Dean breathed out a sigh of relief.

"Is that all?"

Sam shot him a look of pure poison, arms crossing over his chest. "Yeah, that's all," he said sarcastically. "Sorry if you think I'm making a big deal about crapping in front of another person."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't think you're making a big deal," he said patiently. "I know what you're feeling. I'm here as well, aren't I?"

Sam shrugged, jaw still set sullenly.

"I just think we have bigger things to worry about than being embarrassed. Look, I'll turn my back, okay? And put my fingers in my ears."

Sam rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly. Dean turned and jammed a finger in each ear. "Can you hum as well?" Sam asked, and Dean saw his point, as he could still clearly hear what his brother was saying. He decided to take the high road and began belting out a favorite Metallica tune, bobbing his head in time to the beat. After all, he wasn't always going to luck out and get to go while Sam was asleep. Start making fun of Sam now, and the evil little bastard would surely get him back later on.

Sam held a mean grudge.

A tap on his shoulder brought Dean out of his self-imposed exile, and he let Sam avoid his gaze and totally dropped the subject.

"Eat," he advised.

"Peaches?" Sam said, already savoring a mouthful of the soft fruit.

"Yeah, our captor decided to provide us with a more varied diet than we thought," Dean said, polishing off his smaller share quickly. He wondered how long he could keep his strength up eating half as much as Sam, but the sight of his brother chowing down hungrily kept the thought at the back of his head. He'd worry about that later.

"Shame he didn't give us a nice ensuite as well," Sam remarked sarcastically.

"Yeah, with a bidet."

"And a fountain."

"And soft fluffy towels," Dean sighed. "Man, I need a shower."

Sam ran his hand through his hair and grimaced. "I guess we could wash up in the sink."

Dean scratched idly at his neck. "We should," he decided. "Just because we're bricked up in a basement doesn't mean we should let our standards slip."

So after eating they took turns washing as best they could over the small, cracked basin, despite the lack of soap or towels. Dean sacrificed his flannel shirt to the cause, and they splashed and dipped their heads under the faucet and then rubbed themselves dry on its folds.

Dean had to admit he felt better afterward, but the drudgery of the day soon caught up with them and they fell silent as they worked, Dean scraping, Sam tapping while leaning against the wall, his head wilting.

Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes and flexed his shoulders. "Swap for a while?"

"Just a second." Dean wrenched, fingers scrabbling for purchase as he pried one brick out of its socket. "Got it!" he announced triumphantly.

"And it only took one day," Sam commented, peering in through the gap. He gingerly put his hand in. "More bricks," he reported, but Dean was high on his success.

"So what? A few more on this side, and I can start on that side. We will get out of here, Sam."

Sam smiled with his lips, but his eyes were still doubtful as he took his turn with the next brick.

666

Dean woke to the sound of his brother's low groan, the feel of his elbow as he pumped rhythmically, then paused, panting. Years of experience sharing a room kicked in, and Dean knew instantly what Sam was doing.

"Really, Sam," he drawled, and Sam jumped a mile and curled in on himself. "Is this the time or place?"

"Shut up," Sam muttered, voice muffled by the thin pillow. "I just thought it would take my mind off how damn hungry I am."

Dean considered this. "It probably would," he conceded.

"Yeah, but I can't." Sam sighed in frustration.

Dean scooted closer and slid one hand over Sam's hip, laying it flat against his belly where his t-shirt had ridden up. "Want some help?"

Sam shot him an incredulous glance over his shoulder, and Dean snorted.

"Not that kind of help, perv-boy."

"What am I supposed to think?" Sam sputtered. "With you copping a feel?"

"I just thought I could, you know. Talk you through it."

"Talk?" Sam said, his voice still wary.

"Yeah," Dean said generously. "Share a story of one of my many and varied sexual experiences. Get your motor running, so to speak."

Sam snorted. "No way could anything you have to say turn me on." He shrugged his shoulder irritably. "Now get off me."

"No, no, wait a minute," Dean said, pressing harder with the flat of his hand on Sam's belly, which fluttered beneath his touch. "Wanna bet? I bet I can turn you on with just the power of my words. What do you say?"

Sam's stomach rose and fell shallowly with his breathing as he glanced dubiously over his shoulder. "Not gonna happen," he finally pronounced.

"Oh yeah?" Dean leaned closer and whispered in Sam's ear, as if someone nearby might hear. "I could tell you about my first ever blow-job," he said softly. "The prettiest waitress you ever saw on her knees, red lips open, little pink tongue coming out."

Sam shivered, and Dean grinned. He waited for Sam to say something else, to reject the notion, but his little brother stayed hunched over, hand still covering his groin.

"This diner," Dean murmured, taking that for consent. "Middle of nowhere. I'm like, fifteen, not much older than you are now. She's like twenty, twenty one, small and a little plump, blonde hair pulled back, all these tiny golden curls around her face. She drags me to the back room, but I wasn't fighting too hard. Store room, big jars of mayo and ketchup, me backed against the wall while she lifts her hand to the top button of her blouse, flicking it open."

Sam shifted a little, hand moving, adjusting himself under the thin fabric of his boxers.

"Now, I deny anyone to tell me that the prettiest sight on earth isn't a plump cleavage, framed by a white lacy bra with little pink roses on it," Dean crooned, shifting himself a little at the memory. "Man, this bra was cut so low I could see her nipples, you know? That round part on the outside."

"The aureole," Sam muttered, hand shifting again.

"Figures you'd know that," Dean chuckled, and Sam's tummy shivered again as Dean's hand smoothed the warm curve. "Yeah, so there's me, all instinct, not much in the way of practical experience. So I just go for it, straight for the _aureole_," he snickered. "Yeah, licking and kissing and tasting all that pale, creamy flesh. And she is so into it, hands in my hair, and dude, she's guiding my head."

Dean swallowed hard, hand pressing into silky flesh, while below it Sam's fist gripped his dick, pumping up and down.

"Let me just say, thank god for the man who invented front-opening bras," Dean breathed reverently. "Because she clicks it open and spills out, and Sam? I think I've died and gone to heaven. Soft white tits, hard little nipples, cherry red, just begging for my lips, you know? And me and this girl have never even kissed, but I got my mouth on her tit and I am sucking like I'm starving."

Sam's hand moved faster as he smothered a moan.

"She's straddling my leg and I feel her shaking, and dude, she is coming, just from that, from me squeezing one tit and sucking the other."

Sam's fist pumped harder and he arched back against Dean, sweat under Dean's hand now as he smoothed it lower, the tips of Dean's fingers just brushing crisp curling hair, pressing hard as Sam slammed his fist back and came.

"Whoo, Sam," Dean said, chuckling hard as Sam convulsed and spilled over his own hand. "I never even got to the blow job part."

"Shut up," Sam slurred, then snuffled into a soft snore as he finally dropped off to sleep.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, carefully reaching for the waistband of Sam's boxers and drawing it up. "I'll save that part for next time."

Then he rolled over onto his back and brought himself off, visions of pink tits and red lips dancing behind his eyes.

And, oddly, that moment when Sammy pressed back against him and came.

666

"Dean?" Sam kept his head low as his hand beat out the automatic code against the pipe. "I want to say I'm sorry."

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"That fight we had the other day." Sam shrugged his shoulders. "I know you're not always on Dad's side."

"I'm not on anyone's side, Sam," Dean said for what felt like the thousandth time. But Sam wasn't listening now any more than he had then.

"Doesn't feel like it sometimes," Sam said moodily.

Another time - a thousand other times Dean might let it drop, not wanting another fight, another argument. But he couldn't walk away from Sam today. Today they were trapped in here, trapped with each other, with no secrets between them. And suddenly Dean wanted his brother to understand.

"Want to know how it feels to me sometimes?" he said lightly, and Sam's head came up and he turned a frown on him.

"What?"

"It feels like I'm this bone between two dogs, snapping and snarling at each other."

Sam was staring at him, looking dumbfounded.

"It feels like neither one of you really cares what I think or want or feel. You just want me on one side against the other. Your side against Dad's."

"Dean," Sam faltered. "You never told me you felt like that."

Dean shrugged. "You never asked."

Sam paused, hand hovering above the pipe, long fingers clenched around the can opener. "I do care what you feel," he said earnestly. "I just... never thought about it like that before."

"Yeah, well, things were never quite as bad before as they've been lately," Dean admitted, still scraping hard, fingers already numb. "You and Dad don't seem able to have one conversation that doesn't end in yelling."

Sam shrugged. "I just feel so... frustrated," he said. "Like I talk and talk and no one's listening, you know?"

"I'm listening, Sam. And Dad listens, too."

"Yeah, but then he just ignores what I say," Sam said bitterly. "And throws out another order."

"You know the trouble between you two?" Dean took a break, flexing tired fingers. "You're too much alike."

"I'm nothing like him!" Sam said vehemently.

"Hey, that wasn't an insult," Dean told him, raising one brow. "I just mean that Dad's a take-charge kinda guy, and so are you. In our little family unit, Dad is the general and we're the grunts."

"I don't remember signing up for this man's army," Sam muttered.

"Yeah, and that's the problem. Because you're not the grunt type. You're the general type, just like Dad. And two generals in one unit? I think that's like the Chinese symbol for war or something."

Sam tapped away a few moments longer. "So does that make you a grunt type?"

"I'm a lover, not a fighter," Dean said, grinning at the thought.

"Yeah, right." Sam shot him a glance, and Dean read all the things his brother wanted to say. Apology. Regret. Fear. He smiled back his forgiveness, and Sam ducked his head and went back to work.

666

The mattress underneath them was little more than stretched canvas, and Dean shifted onto his side in an effort to find a comfortable spot. Sam sighed and pressed back into him, and, suppressing a grin, Dean leaned forward.

"Want me to finish my story?" he whispered.

"If you like," Sam said carelessly, but his hand dropped to the waistband of his shorts.

Dean snuffled a laugh but obediently picked up the tale, whispering into his little brother's ear the delights of a willing waitress. Sam shifted for a moment or two, but his hand continued toying with the elastic waistband, and Dean paused, wondering if his storytelling abilities had failed him.

Then Sam huffed impatiently and reached over, snatching Dean's hand from where it rested on his hip and dragging it around to his belly under his t-shirt.

Dean spread his palm, feeling warm flesh quiver, and just for a moment he paused, a tendril of doubt creeping in. It had never occurred to him that this might be crossing some line. He was just helping Sammy out, wasn't he? Making this nightmare just a little easier so they could both get through it?

"Dean?" Sam whispered, and Dean's doubts dissolved. There was nothing wrong here, between him and Sam. He smoothed supple skin again and took up his story, and Sam was squinching his eyes shut and panting through his lips as he pumped himself to orgasm. This time he didn't fall right to sleep; he rolled a little on his side and watched through slitted eyes as Dean freed his dick from its cotton prison and brought about his own release.

Again Dean felt a touch of uneasiness, but minutes later Sam was sleeping, the lines of worry on his face smoothed out, the hollows of his cheeks not so obvious. And Dean shook the unwelcome feeling off.

666

Days passed in the unrelenting rhythm of the bricks on the wall, loosened and removed one by one. Dean finally ripped the sleeves off his flannel shirt and wrapped them around his hands, terrified of a blister or cut turning septic on him down in the increasingly close quarters of the room.

They varied their meals as much as possible given their limited options, but the cold, dull fare barely satisfied their appetites, and Dean was forced to increase their rations as they began to grow weak alarmingly quickly. It cut down their long term chances of survival, but as day after day passed with no sign of rescue, it began to seem as if their only chance was going to be getting out of there themselves. And they couldn't do that if they were too weak to work.

As the long hours wore past, Dean found his mind turning more and more to the time when they would put down their tools and rest. The moments of comfort with Sam seemed to be the only thing either of them had to look forward to, and more than once during the day Dean looked up and caught Sam's curious glance at him, before his brother flushed and turned away.

Dean still worried a little about it. After that second night, he didn't ask Sam if he wanted to hear a story, he just let Sammy curl against him while he began to whisper some tale or another. Mostly they were made up, fragments of fantasies and one or two movies he'd seen when Dad forgot to lock out the porn channel in some motel.

It didn't matter to Sam, anyway. After a while, Dean realized that his little brother was barely hearing the words; it was Dean's voice in his ear, Dean's breath against his skin that stirred him. Dean's hand sliding over his belly, up to stroke over his smooth chest, down to the fine curls of pubic hair above his dick.

And then finally, inevitably Dean's hand was wrapped around Sam's down there, and Sam was throwing his head back into the curve of Dean's neck as he moaned and panted his pleasure. Then, while his body was still trembling through the pleasurable aftershocks, he was turning in Dean's arms, pressing his mouth to the hollow of his brother's throat and returning the favor.

They never talked about it outside of the bed. But, curiously, there was never anything awkward about it either. And Dean thought maybe that's why he eventually just stopped worrying about it. If Sam had seemed uncomfortable or embarrassed... If it had seemed like what they were doing was changing their relationship for the worse...

Then Dean was sure he could have stopped it.

But, in fact, Dean felt like it was actually strengthening them. As if all the words they couldn't say, all the things they were feeling were being conveyed in those touches, unselfish, loving, hot as hell.

And the days passed.

666

"Dean?"

Dean banged out the rhythm. Dot dot dot. Dash dash dash. Dot dot dot. "Yeah?" he said wearily.

Sam gazed at him across the dim room. "We're going to die down here, aren't we?"

Dean's hands dropped away from the pipe. He wanted to lie to Sam, to repeat the same tired mantra he'd been chanting for days and days. That they would get out of here. That Dad would come. But only a dozen bricks removed and yet another wall behind it made it harder to repeat the comforting story. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I hope not."

Sam looked down at his grimy hands, bruised and scratched despite the frayed cotton wrapped around them. "Aren't you scared?" he asked in a low voice.

"Not really." Dean frowned, dropping the can opener and climbing to his feet, stretching tired muscles. His belly felt hollow, his arms and legs like lead. He felt as if he'd slept days and days away, and yet he was so tired he barely made it to the side of the bed. "I'm not afraid to die," he said pensively, making room as Sam sat down beside him. "I don't want to, there's stuff I still want to do. And I'm worried about what Dad will do without us. But I'm not afraid."

"I wish I could be like you," Sam said softly, looking down at his hands. "I'm scared all the time."

Dean pressed against Sam's shoulder with his own. "Hunting with Dad, we've seen a lot of strange things. Enough to know that there's more to life than most people see. I'm sure there must be something to come, after this life. I'm sure there is."

"You think Mom's there?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Dean couldn't help a fleeting smile at the thought. "Maybe. But whatever comes next, Sammy, you don't have to be afraid. Because I'm here, right? You're not alone."

Sam lifted his gaze and stared at him.

"You and me, we'll go there together."

"Together?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders, tears prickling his eyes at how fragile Sam felt, how thin. "Together," he said firmly. "And there's nothing we can't face together."

Sam turned it over in his mind, and like a balm to a wound Dean saw as acceptance smoothed some of the lines of worry from his young face. He lifted damp eyes and caught Dean's. "You promise?"

"Promise."

Sam studied his eyes for long moments, and Dean looked back, noting the tired smudges under Sam's eyes, how pale his skin was. He lifted his hand and cupped his little brother's thin face, thumb stroking one blue shadow.

Sam's mouth trembled for a moment, then he leaned forward and tucked his head into Dean's neck, lips brushing Dean's throat, breath warm and damp on his skin.

And Dean turned a kiss onto Sam's cheek, skimming it over quivering skin, finding Sam's lips and brushing them with his. The kiss skimmed, then clung, Sam's lips parting, breath coming faster. He hummed his frustration at the soft caress, and Dean lifted his hand and stroked his thumb over his brother's lower lip, opening his mouth a little before kissing him again, harder this time, deeper.

Sam's hands clutched and he moaned, falling back onto the bed as Dean pressed him down, losing himself in warm, trembling flesh, glorying in the feel of life under his hands and mouth, Sam's life, Sam's lust as he quivered and squirmed and returned kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke. Long fingers pushed under his waistband, buttons slipping from the holes, Dean's dick wrapped and encircled by Sam's hand.

No whispered stories this time, no memories of stolen delights. Just the two of them, Sam moaning Dean's name as his big brother's hand caught his dick and stroked it, pumped it, eased the aching hardness and brought him to searing release.

"Promise," Sam sighed and panted into his mouth.

666

Dean didn't know how long he'd slept but he came awake in a sudden shock of sound. Metal clattered and clanked against the brick wall, the loud noise shocking after days of only their voices surrounding them. Heart pounding, head spinning, Dean jackknifed to a sitting position, staring with shock at Sam, who was standing by the pile of empty cans, his chest heaving and his fists clenched.

"Sammy?"

Sam shook his head, seeming for a moment beyond words. "I woke up and thought I'd open the cans for once," Sam said through clenched teeth. He nodded to the two red plastic bowls on the wooden cupboard. "How long did you think it would be before I figured it out?" he demanded angrily, kicking again at the pile of empty tins, the noise making Dean flinch.

Dean pressed his hand to his chest, his heart still feeling like it was trying to pound its way out. "Notice what?" he said incredulously. "That you're losing your mind?"

"You've been giving me your food!" Sam bellowed. "Haven't you?"

"Oh." Dean swung his legs around and sat up. "That."

"Yeah," Sam hissed. "That! Jesus, Dean, I'm not a little kid any more. I'm not a baby! Why did you do it?"

"Force of habit," Dean said lightly. "It's no big deal, Sam, okay?"

Sam huffed a disbelieving breath, shaking his head. "No big deal?" he repeated. "Look at you, Dean. You can barely stand up. I feel as weak as a kitten on what I've been eating, and you've been surviving on what? Half that?"

"You're making too big a thing out of this," Dean told him firmly. "I've been giving you an extra spoonful now and then, but you're still growing, Sam. You needed it more. And you've always had a bigger appetite than me."

"You don't get it, do you?" Sam appealed, anger crumbling. "I was just starting to feel like we were... equals in this." His glance took in the rumpled bed and he looked away, his pale cheeks reddening. "Is that what the last few weeks have been about as well? Pity fucks for pathetic little Sammy?"

"Okay, that's enough," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the spots behind his eyes. He caught Sam's shoulders and squeezed. "Look at me," he said, and Sam swallowed hard and looked up. "I don't pity you, Sam, and I never did."

"But that's what it feels like," Sam mumbled. "You're always doing this, Dean, you're always taking care of me."

"Yeah, what a bastard that makes me," Dean shot back sarcastically.

Anger sparked in Sam's eyes again, and he shook Dean off. "Well, what does it make me?" Sam demanded. "The other day you were telling me how selfish I was, thinking only about how I was feeling and not about you."

"I never said that!"

"And you were right, Dean, I was being selfish. I was acting like a kid, taking you for granted, getting mad when you weren't on my side."

"It's not like that at all," Dean said lowly.

"I don't want it to be," Sam said, hands coming up and grabbing Dean's forearms. "I don't want to always be the baby you take care of, Dean. Okay? Last night, in bed, I wasn't a baby then, was I? It wasn't just you making me feel good. We made each other feel that way, didn't we?"

"You know we did," Dean said.

"Well, that's the way I want it to be all the time. Partners. Equals. Me taking care of you now and then."

Tired all of a sudden, Dean swayed, and Sam gripped his arms tighter and pushed him gently back on the bed. "You can barely stand up," Sam said again, this time without heat. Tears trembled on his lashes, but he dashed them away with the back of his hand. "You promised we'd do this together, Dean. How can we do that if you starve yourself for my sake?"

Dean rubbed his brow, pressing fingers into the aching crease, acknowledging the truth of Sam's words. He would never have believed he could grow so weak so quickly. The nearest he could figure, they'd been down here the better part of two weeks. Surely a person could survive on short rations for a few weeks?

"I'm scared, Dean," Sam confessed, voice shaking. "What would I do without you?"

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said quietly. "You're right, I shouldn't have gone behind your back and done that."

Sam dropped to the ground in front of him, long, thin legs crossed. "It's okay," he sighed, shoulders slumped. "I know you meant to take care of me."

"Yeah, but it's not all unselfish and heroic like it sounds," Dean confessed. The guilt and fear in Sam's eyes was almost more than he could stand. He had to explain, to make Sam understand. "Taking care of you... Well, that's how I get through things. I'm just as scared as you are, Sam. I feel like I'm falling apart sometimes too, like I can barely hold it together. But if I have to be strong for you, I can keep myself from flying apart. You see? It's not you, Sam. It's me."

Sam reached out and took his hands, and Dean looked down at them, tears blurring his eyes. He barely recognized his own hands, his knuckles bruised and scraped from the bricks, calluses on his fingers from the hours gripping the tin cans and scraping at mortar.

"You don't have to hide that from me, Dean," Sam whispered. "I don't want you to. You can tell me anything, you know that. And if we're scared, we can be scared together."

Dean gazed into his brother's eyes, no longer seeing little Sam running to him for love and attention. Now he saw the traces of the man Sam would grow up to be, strong and kind. His chest ached at the thought that Sam was never going to be that man, that he was never going to see his little brother grow up and become everything he could be.

"I don't think we're going to get through the walls," Dean confessed. There was a gap large enough to fit through on the first wall, and the second had a half a dozen bricks removed. But behind it was ragged blocks of concrete and twisted rebar, like the detritus of a building site tipped down into the hole. Two weeks ago, Dean would have been on his knees, dragging the heavy lumps and jagged shards away as he dug their way out. Today it was all he could do to keep scraping at the mortar, to keep widening the hole.

"But we'll keep trying, right?" Sam said firmly. "When you're not strong enough, I'll keep trying. And when I can't dig any more, I'll keep sending out the SOS."

Dean smiled at the determination in Sam's voice. "Damn right," he said with as much strength as he could muster. "Now hand me my bowl and I'll eat my fair share, okay? Gotta keep our strength up."

"Damn right," Sam repeated.

Unspoken between them was the night before, all the nights before. Dean giving comfort had turned to mutual comfort, had turned to something Dean no longer struggled to put a name to. It didn't seem like something to be troubled about any more, what they did and said between the two of them.

Sam handed him his bowl and the plastic fork and then sat by him on the bed while they ate. Dean let himself lean on Sam, Sam wrapped one arm around his waist and supported him.

They leaned on each other.

666

More days passed in a daze of repetitive work and rationed meals. They fell into bed and each other's arms, but no longer had the desire or energy for more than comforting kisses. Every day they grew weaker. The cool damp air seemed to get into Dean's lungs, and he developed a hacking cough that kept him awake and miserable. While Sam slept fitfully, Dean would sit on the side of the bed, head in his hands, feeling wretched and ill.

True to his word, Dean divided up the rest of the food evenly under Sam's watchful eye, but it was plain that the rations weren't nearly enough. Sam's cheeks grew gaunt, and Dean stumbled whenever he stood up, black spots behind his eyes as he swayed dizzily. The gnawing ache in his stomach had become familiar; he tried to fill it with water but soon just felt bloated and sick. One day in the middle of a coughing fit, he felt it coming back up, and barely made it to the toilet bowl in time to throw up the contents of his stomach.

Sam helped him back to the bed and handed him the cup to rinse his mouth out with, thin hand shaking. They abandoned their work for the day and curled up on the bed. Sam gave into his grief, and Dean allowed himself to as well, weak tears running down his cheeks and into his hair.

"Don't forget," Sam mumbled into his shoulder. "You promised. You won't go without me."

The prison was spinning around him, and Dean closed his eyes. "I won't forget," he whispered past the burn in his throat. Hours later, Sam awoke from a nightmare and shivered beside him.

"I'm sorry," he wept. "I'm sorry, Dean. I dreamt I was in here alone, and when I woke up I was glad to see you. I'm sorry."

"Sammy." Dean rolled onto his side and caught his brother's arm as firmly as he could manage. "Listen to me, okay?"

Sam blinked swollen eyes and peered at him.

"If I had a choice, right now," Dean said hoarsely, groping for words. "I mean, if an angel or something came down and offered me freedom, out there, with Dad, looking for you, or being here with you... It's no contest, man. The only thing worse than you being here with me would be you being here alone."

"Y-you'd be safe," Sam said shakily. "You wouldn't be sick."

"I wouldn't be with you," Dean said, squeezing Sam's arm. "Together, remember? Whatever happens next, we go there together."

666

It was one thing to talk about dying together. But it turned out that dying was hard. It hurt, and it was slow. And it wasn't so easy going together.

The last time he worked on the wall, Dean paused for one of his increasingly frequent rests and gazed down at the latest piece of tin he was using to scrape with. The rough mortar had honed the edge to a knife-like sharpness, and Dean turned it over in his hand, admiring the sharp edge. Without consciously thinking about it, he put the piece of tin aside and started using another.

One day, Dean couldn't get up from the bed. The food was gone. Dean had insisted Sammy eat the last of it, as he could barely keep water down any more, and eating his share would just be a waste. Sammy shoveled it down like he was shoveling fuel into a fire, eyes alive with guilt. But when Dean couldn't even stand unaided to pee any more, Sam could still slump against the wall, beating out his persistent tattoo of distress.

Once Dean stirred awake from his groggy stupor and found Sam crouched next to him, the sharp tin in his hand, his eyes fixed on the thin bones of his wrist.

Dean lifted his hand and caught feebly at Sam's arm.

"Not yet," he pleaded, because even through his daze he winced at the thought of that jagged metal tearing Sammy's fragile skin. "Don't give up yet."

The next time he stirred to consciousness, Sam was holding his hand, head bent over, face pressed to his palm.

"Please don't leave me, Dean," he was whispering, breath ghosting over Dean's skin. "Please don't leave me alone."

Dean tried to lift his hand again, to touch Sammy's head, to run his fingers through shaggy hair one last time. But he was too weak, and his free hand collapsed back onto the bed.

The rest of the time all Dean could hear was the persistent tattoo, that SOS beating against his skull, as Sammy fought valiantly to the last. As he used the final vestiges of his strength up in hope.

Epilogue

"I'm telling you, Boss," Jimmy Hagman said, taking off his hard hat and wiping at his sweaty brow. "I've been hearing it off and on for days. This weird... tapping noise."

Carter Wallace rolled his eyes and followed his foreman down to the condemned property. "Probably just the wind banging a shutter or something," he said dismissively, grimacing up at the dilapidated old property. Paint hung from the wood in ragged strips, boards were missing, and one side was a blackened wreck after a lightening strike the year before. It was about time it was pulled down, he thought.

Jimmy paused and cocked his head. "Nah," he denied. "It sounds like it's coming from underground. I'd swear-" He broke off, listening hard. "There, that's it! You hear that?"

Carter tilted his head, an old, familiar memory sparking in his brain.

"I think-" Jimmy began, but Carter cut him off with a abrupt gesture.

"Shh," he said, the sound clearer now. "My god," he whispered. "Jimmy, you idiot. That's an SOS!"

Jimmy stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Don't you get it? Someone must be trapped down there! Sully! Jack! Get an axe over here! I need some help!" Carter threw down his clip board and tore off his jacket. "Don't just stand there gaping, man!" he bellowed. "Call 911! We need a rescue team, ambulances, cops, too, probably! Hurry!"

End of Part One


	2. Chapter 2

Prologue

Carter Wallace had seen action in the Marine Corps in '69 through to '72. He'd seen the face of war and buried more than one friend. But he would never forget what he saw that day.

It took nearly an hour before he could hear someone yelling over the sounds of the shovels and axes. He shushed the men near him and called back.

"Hello? Who's down there?"

"Help us!" a voice called faintly, and the men around him stirred.

"It's a kid," Sully said grimly.

"Hold on, son!" Carter yelled. "We're coming!"

Ten minutes later they were peering through a hole in a brick wall, and Carter, still in front with the search and rescue team, blinked against the damp, musty air. It was a kid, two kids, one still as death on a narrow cot, the other crouched beside him, shielding his eyes against the light. He raised a gaunt hand in appeal.

"Help my brother," he whispered, then fell over in a dead faint.

**The Promise**

ByGillian Middleton

Part Two

John Winchester rode to the hospital with the cops, because even at his fastest he didn't have lights and sirens. He barely made sense of the story the detective told him, or the messages over the radio. His every thought was concentrated on his boys, and the only words that mattered to him right now:

_"They're alive."_

Press was already gathered around the hospital entrance when the police car tore up, hospital security herding them back as John and the detectives climbed out of the car. John didn't bother to shield his face; he'd given into the cops' demands to appeal to the public using the press, but now that he had his boys back, he no longer cared what they did.

He refused to entertain the thought that he might have gotten them back only to lose them again in this hospital.

"My sons," he demanded of the bewildered nurse behind the desk of the ER. "Where are my sons?"

"Uh, one of them is being treated in Room Four," the nurse said, shooting a glance at the three detectives flanking John and the four more patrolmen arriving. "Down there," she began, pointing, but John was way ahead of her, tearing past cubicles until he shuddered to a stop, his eyes telling him he'd found his youngest son, but his brain refusing to believe it.

Lank brown hair tumbled over skin as pale as bone. Gaunt face, sunken cheeks and eye sockets. A nurse held Sam's hand, inserting an IV, and John could see every vein in that bony paw.

Sam moaned in pain as the needle was inserted, and the small sound galvanized John, brought him back to life.

"Sammy," he said hoarsely, and blue shadowed lids lifted over dull eyes. A doctor pressed an oxygen mask over Sammy's face, and for a moment John was sure his boy didn't recognize him. Then the hand still in the nurse's grip fluttered and Sam's head twisted away from the plastic mask.

With a few paces, John was by his side, catching hold of Sammy's flailing hand, heart lanced with agony at the fine tremor of his son's long, thin fingers.

"Dad," Sam whispered, and the doctor lifted the mask away for a moment.

"I'm here, Sammy," John said as steadily as he could manage. How many times had he watched Sammy's hands deftly take his gun apart and clean it? Wield a pencil as he bent over a school assignment. Patch up a wound, fingers delicately stroking a tender patch of skin. Sammy's strong, beautiful young hands, now bruised and bloody and fluttering in his grasp like a broken bird.

"Dean," Sam whispered, eyes imploring. "Where's Dean?"

"He's nearby, Sam," John assured him.

"Go find him, Dad," Sammy said weakly.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said. "He can't talk any more right now."

"He promised me, Dad," Sammy managed as the doctor fitted the mask back over his face. "He promised."

Sam's fingers squeezed weakly at his again before letting go, eyes still desperate and wild.

"I'll be back," John promised.

In the treatment room next door, he could hear urgent voices and sounds and John knew his oldest son was in there, ill and in pain. A nurse in scrubs rushed by, and John grasped a swinging door and clung for a moment as he watched trained professionals hover around his boy, his Dean. As they stuck needles in him and pushed a tube down his throat and attached him to a machine. Dean coughed and choked around the thick plastic, and John winced in pain at the horrible, hollow sounds.

He wanted to go to Dean as he had gone to Sammy, to take his hand and tell him he was safe. That hell itself could open now, and John would stand between them and it and fight to his final breath to keep them safe.

But it was obvious that Dean was beyond such assurances. If it weren't for the machine inflating his lungs, John would have believed Dean dead on that table, so still and pale and thin was he. A nurse hooked an IV bottle to the bed and then they were pushing him out of the cubicle and away from him.

"Where are they taking my son?" John demanded, finally finding his voice again.

"Mr. Winchester?" A young man with dark, tousled hair was pulling off a pair of latex gloves. He wore a white coat with a stethoscope slung around his shoulder.

"How is he? How's Dean?"

"We're taking Dean to ultrasound and radiography." The doctor gestured to the door. "Please, Mr. Winchester. Let's find somewhere a little more quiet to talk."

John cast a look back at the room that Sam was being treated in, but followed the doctor down the hall to an empty waiting room. He needed to know everything about Dean's condition, and Sammy wouldn't rest until he could be reassured that his brother was getting better. The doctor closed the glass door behind him, and John passed a trembling hand over his face. He was still reeling with shock at the sight of his boys, so gaunt and pale. So weak and vulnerable. It was his every nightmare brought to life.

John sat, legs shaking. No, not every nightmare. His first, greatest fear was, for the moment, overcome.

His boys were alive.

"Mr. Winchester," the doctor began, sinking down opposite John. "Dean is being taken for an ultrasound on his kidneys. Severe dehydration and malnutrition can cause renal failure; that's one of our immediate worries. The other is his lungs. I'm guessing from the sound of his breathing that he's developed pneumonia. That at least is easily treated, although still a concern in his weakened state."

John took it all in with a grim nod. "What happens if his kidneys fail?"

The doctor hesitated. "We have several treatment options available to us. For the moment, let's just wait for the test results and hope for the best."

John frowned, turning the conversation over in his mind. "You said those were the immediate worries?"

"There can be more serious longterm effects, but I don't think we need worry about that right now, either. Dean's young and he has that on his side. Such a rapid weight loss is never a good thing, but he's in the best of care now, and I'm confident we can bring him through this."

"What serious longterm effects?" John persisted stubbornly. He had to know everything, had to be prepared for what might come.

The doctor studied his determined face. "Starvation can cause an abnormally slow heart rate and low blood pressure. This in turn produces changes in the heart muscle and increases the risk of heart failure."

"What about Sammy?" John asked numbly.

"Both boys are being monitored carefully, however Sammy seems to have come through it best. Mr. Winchester," the doctor said gently, "I know the sight of them was pretty shocking. It looks like neither of them could afford to lose the weight they did, especially so rapidly. But I'm very hopeful that we can get the boys through this without any serious longterm effects."

"I've got to get back to my son," John murmured, not really taking in the doctor's words. He wasn't sure how much of it to believe anyway. He'd always had a healthy disrespect for authority figures, and he remembered hearing their lies and half truths before. "When... When will you have the test results?"

"As quickly as possible. I'll find you."

Sam still had the oxygen mask strapped over his face, but his shadowed eyes opened and he sought his father's gaze as John squeezed his hand. They asked a question as clearly as the words he couldn't utter, and John attempted a reassuring smile.

"Dean's okay, son," he said as firmly as he could manage. "They're doing tests right now, but he's in the best of hands."

Sammy groped for the mask with his free hand, and John reached forward and lifted it a little.

"See him?" Sammy managed.

"Soon, Sammy."

"Promise," Sam mumbled, eyes closing.

"I promise." John stroked his son's lank hair back from his forehead and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Sam's pale skin, closing his eyes and sending up a prayer of gratitude. "I promise."

666

Dr. Robards came back smiling, and John felt a little more of the tension leave his shoulders.

"Dean's kidneys are fine," the doctor said cheerfully. "The x-rays do show he has pneumonia, but we're treating him with antibiotics, and his prognosis is good."

"Is he awake? Can I see him?"

The doctor hesitated. "Dean is still intubated, and I'm keeping him sedated for the moment. I don't want to put him through the stress of trying to breathe alone right now."

John nodded. "Please, doctor. Tell me honestly. Is he in danger?"

"I won't lie to you, Mr. Winchester. For someone in Dean's weakened condition, pneumonia is a serious illness. Dean's being moved to Intensive Care, and over the next day or so we'll be monitoring him closely to stave off any secondary infections. I'd put his chances at good right now, and if all goes well in the next 48 hours, I'll upgrade that to excellent." The doctor glanced at Sam, who was sleeping fitfully, lashes fluttering above the oxygen mask. He picked up Sam's chart and ran an eye over it. "I'll have someone tell you when Dean's settled in the ICU, and you can go and visit him. Dr. Singh is the best," he assured John. "Sam is in good hands."

"You hear that, Sammy?" John murmured as the doctor left the room. "You're both going to be just fine."

John wondered when he'd start believing that for himself.

666

Dean looked so small laying on the hospital bed, John thought as he approached his eldest son's bedside. His gown was loose around his neck and pads and wires were attached to his sallow skin. Dean still had a tube taped to his face, and his chest rose and fell evenly with the wheeze of the machine.

"Dean?" John murmured, carefully touching Dean's hand. It was taped, too, an IV protruding from the papery skin. "It's Dad, Dean." He leaned forward. "Sammy's fine, son. You're both gonna be just fine. And I'm here to protect you."

Dean's fingers didn't squeeze back; his eyes didn't move beneath his shadowed eyelids.

"Hold on, Dean," John whispered.

666

"Hey, Sam," John said gently when Sam's eyes flickered open. "How you feeling?"

Sam blinked up at the ceiling.

"You're in your own room now, son, and the doc says you don't need oxygen any more. Sam?"

"Dean?"

"He's in another room. He's doing just fine."

"I want to see him," Sam whispered, eyes fluttering closed again. "I want to see Dean."

"Soon."

Sam breathed slowly in and out, hands flexing on the hospital sheets, long limbs shifting a little. "The air smells so clean," he murmured, narrow chest rising and falling as he breathed deeply. "Is this a dream?" he wondered softly. "It doesn't feel real."

"It is real, son," John said thickly. "You're safe."

"We were ready to die." Sam continued distantly. "I was listening to Dean breathing, I could hear him struggling for breath. I did like I told him I would, I didn't give up. But I was ready, when he stopped, to follow him."

"Please, Sammy," John managed, his throat tight. "Don't think about it now, okay? Just concentrate on getting well."

Sammy turned and blinked at him, and John was momentarily disconcerted. It was almost as if his son was only just noticing him.

"Is Dean better?"

John clenched his jaw. "He's... holding his own."

Alarm flared in Sam's eyes, chasing away the dull confusion.

"Dad?" he said, lifting his head and pressing down on the mattress as if he was going to sit up.

"No, Sammy." John stood, taking thin shoulders and gently pushing him back down.

"Where's Dean?" Sam said wildly. "I thought you said he was okay?"

"He is," John insisted. "I promise he is. He's just.. recovering more slowly than you."

Sam shifted under his father's gentle touch. "Let me up," he said, his voice shaky. "I have to see him, I have to talk to him."

"He won't hear you," John told him. "They're keeping him sedated while he gets stronger."

"Sedated?" Sam repeated fearfully.

"It's the best thing for him, Sammy. He's just so... weak."

Tears prickled Sam's eyes and he blinked them away. "Dad," he said. "Please, Dad. I need to see Dean. You have to take me to him."

John shook his head, heart aching at the pleading tone in his son's voice. "I can't."

"Please, Dad," Sam repeated, tears overflowing, spilling. "We made a promise to each other, Dad. A promise. And Dean's never ever broken a promise to me."

"A promise?" John said, searching his son's eyes.

"Dean promised that whatever came next we'd go there together," Sam said, eyes willing his father to understand. "I made him promise to wait for me. But if I'm not there with him..." Sam swallowed hard, weak tears running down hollow cheeks again. "If I'm not there, he might think it's all right to let go. You understand?"

And John did understand; he'd seen men let go of life and give up when they lost all hope. Somehow his sons had survived the hell they'd been through, somehow they'd come through it, and John never doubted for a minute that they'd done that because they were together, because they had each other.

Sam was still gazing at him, asking him... and there'd been so many times Sammy had asked for things that John couldn't give him. Wouldn't bend far enough to give him.

But he could give him this.

"Okay, Sammy," he said, squeezing his son's hand again. "I'll make it happen."

666

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," Dr. Robards said gently. "It's impossible."

"No," John bit out. "You know what's impossible? Getting my sons back from the brink of death. Seeing my strong, beautiful boys reduced to shadows of themselves." John stepped forward, eyes boring into the young doctor's. "Looking into my son's eyes and telling him he can't be with his big brother. After all they've been through. After all they've suffered. Please, doctor. Just bend the rules a little bit."

Dr. Robards shook his head, clearly torn. Behind them in the deserted waiting room, a TV set was playing; a sturdy, grizzled black man in a yellow helmet was being interviewed.

"I can't imagine how they survived," he said in a deep, shaky voice. "I was down in that place for just a few minutes, and I couldn't wait to get out and breathe fresh air."

The doctor closed his eyes and shook his head again. "I'm going to get into so much trouble for this," he muttered. "Look, there's no way Sam could join Dean in the ICU. But I will allow him to visit his brother - for a short period of time. Then, if Dean improves the way we hope, we'll get them into a room together."

"Thank you, doctor," John said, relieved he wasn't going to have to disappoint Sam.

"He's going to have to be cleaned up first," the doctor said. "And masked and gowned as well."

"Whatever it takes," John agreed.

666

A nurse came to give Sam a sponge bath, but didn't object when John helped her, smoothing the warm, damp cloth down Sam's thin arms and over his bony hands. She wiped his face and then gently rubbed at his scalp and hair, leaving the brown strands damp and tousled. Sam lay still, but his eyes were eager and impatient as his gown was tugged away and a fresh one was pulled up his arms and over his torso.

John helped smooth it over his son's shoulders, fighting to keep the horror off his face at Sam's wasted body, his strong young limbs so thin and trembling.

"Can I see him now?" Sam's eyes were glassy bright; his pale cheeks were flushed.

"Maybe you should rest a little first," John said and Sam turned a familiar black frown on him.

"Dad," he said reproachfully.

"All right." John gave in, and the nurse shrugged and fetched the wheelchair from the corner. "But I'm bringing you right back here when you're worn out, okay?"

Sam nodded and let his father help him into the chair. The nurse tucked a blanket around his legs.

"We have to use the service elevator to ICU," she said apologetically. "Security is having real problems with the press."

John cast Sam a glance, but the boy didn't seem to be taking her words in. He was focused on the door, his thin body almost vibrating with impatience.

666

Sam didn't pay any attention to the wires and the machines surrounding Dean's bed. His eyes were drawn straight to his brother, and he reached without hesitation for Dean's hand. John settled the wheelchair in place and laid a hand on Sammy's shoulder, watching with mingled joy and sadness as his sons were reunited. Sam held Dean's hand between his own, then bent, turning his cheek into Dean's vulnerable palm.

"Dean," he whispered.

Around them nurses moved quietly, checking machines and making notes on Dean's chart. John barely noticed the people pausing to peer in through the glass window, only dimly aware that there was a lot of curiosity about his boys. All his attention was fixed on Sam as he stroked Dean's hand gently with his own trembling fingers.

"He gave me his food," Sam said haltingly, eyes still fixed on his brother's face. "By the time I realized what he was doing, he was already so weak."

"Dean takes care of us," John murmured. "That's what he does."

Sam pushed against the arms of the wheelchair, and John leaned over and helped him to his feet. "Sam," he warned gently, and Sam shook his head.

"Just a minute." Sam leaned forward and whispered something in his brother's ear, resting his forehead against Dean's, hand flat on his brother's belly. Then he collapsed back in his chair.

"That's enough, Sam," John said. "You won't do Dean any good if you end up in ICU yourself."

Sam slumped and closed his eyes. "It's okay, Dad," he murmured. "He's gonna be okay."

666

The day after Dean was moved to his own room, Sam lay on his side in bed, eyes on Dean as always. The nursing staff had moved a lounge chair from their staff room for John, and he stretched back into it with a sigh. He'd just taken his first shower in the three days since the boys had been found and managed an hour's sleep while Sammy was napping. Now if Dean would only wake up, he could actually allow himself to relax.

"Dad?"

John looked over at his youngest son, noting with approval that Sam's cheeks were already starting to fill out a little. Sam was tolerating the bland, high-nutrient liquid diet and handfuls of micronutrients and vitamin supplements well, and his doctor was very pleased with his progress.

"Okay, Sammy?"

"How long, Dad?"

John knew instantly what his boy was asking, and he heaved a sigh, wondering if it was a good sign or a bad sign that Sam finally wanted to know. He climbed out of his armchair and stood next to Sam's bed, stroking overlong hair back from Sam's pale brow. He hadn't touched his sons so much in years, but now he couldn't seem to stop himself, as if only by physically reaching out for them could he convince himself that he had them back.

"Twenty-five days, son," he said.

Sam blinked. "It seemed longer." He shook his head. "What happened, Dad? What happened to us?"

"You were kidnapped off the street, Sammy. A witness came forward and said he saw a man putting a boy into a white van, and for ten days that was all we had to go on." John swallowed hard as memories of those days flooded back over him. It was all still so close, so raw.

"Ten days?" Sam frowned.

"On the eleventh day after you disappeared, a man named Leon Campbell tried to kidnap two girls from their back yard. Sisters," John said grimly.

Sam's face grew noticeably paler. "Are they okay?" he asked. "Did he..?"

"He picked the wrong house," John said, his voice harsh. "The girls' father was a cop, and he arrived home unexpectedly as Campbell was dragging the youngest into the van. He ended up shooting and killing the kidnapper."

Sam's hands clenched in the hospital blankets. "He's dead?" he whispered.

John nodded. "He died at the scene. It was only later when the cops searched his house and found your wallets and... your shoes..." John faltered, unable to continue for a moment around the tightness in his throat. He remembered the devastation on the cop's face when he realized that by saving his girls he'd condemned two other pairs of siblings to an unknown fate.

John remembered sitting with his head in his hands as hope seemed to ebb away from him. Sam and Dean had been gone eleven days. Next to him were a married couple whose son and daughter had already been missing nineteen days. John wondered fleetingly where that couple were now, what they were thinking. What did they think when they heard how close it had been for the Winchester brothers? They must have realized at that moment how little chance their own children had of still being alive.

"The sisters?" Sam said in a small voice. "Are they okay?"

"They're fine, Sam," John assured him, wishing that Sam need never know about the other teenagers. One day he'd have to, but not now, when he was still so close to the edge.

"They're okay," Sam repeated as if reassuring himself. "And... he's dead?"

"Dead and cremated," John said with satisfaction. "He'll never hurt anyone again."

"Why did he do it, Dad?"

John sighed and stroked the fine, pale skin of his son's hand. "I wish I had an answer for you, Sam, I really do. He'd spent his life in and out of prisons and institutions, we know that much. Some people say that he was mentally ill, like that's a reason." John set his jaw. "But we know that some things in the world are just evil."

"I thought it was a job," Sam said lowly. "But Dean never believed it."

"No, not a job," John confirmed. "Not all the bad things that happen in the world are supernatural, Sammy."

Sam nodded and half-closed his eyes under his father's caressing hand. "Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"When's Dean going to wake up?"

They both looked over at Dean, who was propped up in the bed to keep his chest clear of congestion and was finally breathing on his own.

"Soon," John promised.

666

Afterwards John realized he'd been gone for ten minutes at the most. It would have only taken five minutes to fix himself a mug of coffee, but the TV had still been playing in the waiting room, and John had been caught by the newscast about the serial kidnapper and his victims. Two saved, two miraculously rescued. And two still missing, presumed dead.

It was the faces of the two missing children John saw first when he nudged open the door to his son's hospital room. A large black and white picture of a brother and sister sitting beside a Christmas tree. It lay on the floor by Sam's bed, which was flanked by a woman turning a guilty face on him and a man with a camera on his shoulder.

One look at the devastation on his son's face and John saw red; the rage and fear that he had suppressed for weeks rose up inside him, and with a roar he flung the scalding coffee at the cowering reporter before ripping the camera away from the cameraman and dashing it to the floor. A nurse appeared in the doorway as the woman screamed, then she rushed away calling for help. John grabbed the screaming woman and the babbling cameraman by the scruffs of their necks and threw them bodily into the hall, not caring what happened to them next as he focused his attention back on his son.

"Sammy?" he said softly, stepping past the smashed camera to his son's bedside. "Sam?"

Sam didn't look up or acknowledge his presence in any way. Fingers trembling with fear, John reached out and caught his son's chin, gazing into blank brown eyes.

"Oh, Sam."

666

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," Dr. Singh said shortly. Her lips were still pinched and white with anger at the security breach. The camera and the coffee had been cleaned up, along with the picture the reporter had shoved under Sam's nose. But Sam's reaction to the horrible realization that another pair of siblings had suffered as he and Dean had could not be so easily swept away.

"I've known men who've suffered PTSD," John said grimly. "They had symptoms for years. But Sam's just..." He broke off, jaw clenching.

Singh nodded sympathetically. "Quite often in children this emotional shutdown is also linked with shutting down verbally. It's an avoidance symptom of the anxiety disorder."

"What are we supposed to do?" John said helplessly.

The doctor sighed. "Just as there are no set patterns as to how each individual will suffer PTSD, so there are no set cures. Right now my recommendation would be time. Talking to Sam. Plenty of physical contact to keep him grounded." The doctor shook her head. "I don't know what to tell you, John," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't have left him," John muttered. "I should have known something like this was coming."

"No one could have known," the doctor assured him. "But we'll get Sam through it. I promise."

666

There were a lot of promises flying around, John thought as he sat by Sam's bed and held his hand. Dean's promise to Sam. His own promise to protect his boys. The doctors' promises to make them well. But life didn't care about promises; it happened regardless.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," John murmured, stroking his son's hand. "You must be thinking I do a lousy job of looking after you compared to Dean."

And as if his name somehow got through to him, John heard a quiet moan from behind him and the crinkle of crisp bed linens as Dean stirred and sighed towards wakefulness. John closed his eyes in a moment's gratitude, although he couldn't help but see the irony of his situation. He'd lost one son only to get the other back.

Except Sammy wasn't lost to him, he was warm and alive under his hands, even if his eyes were open and he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Instinct that he didn't even know he possessed had John reaching over and slipping the plastic tube from Sam's IV. Then he gathered his youngest son in his arms and carried him to his eldest's bed. John laid him beside his brother, lax head on Dean's shoulder, long, thin arm draped over his brother's body.

Dean stirred again, sighed and turned his head to nuzzle his brother's cheek as his eyelids flickered then lifted slowly.

"Sammy?' he breathed.

John cupped Dean's lean cheek and smiled into dazed eyes. "Hey, sleepyhead."

"Hey, Dad," Dean mumbled. He lifted his arm, stared for a moment at the IV, then draped it over his brother, curling Sam close and half-closing his eyes tiredly. "Hey, Sammy," he sighed.

For long moments Sam's blank eyes stared past him sightlessly, then Sam blinked and frowned and focused on his brother's face next to his own.

"Dean?" he whispered, and John groped for the chair and collapsed into it as his legs threatened to give out in sheer relief.

"Sam," Dean said, squinting at his brother in the bright light. "I told you we'd get out."

Sam frowned again, then his brow cleared and his mouth trembled. "Yeah," he whispered, curving closer to his brother. "You promised."

End of Part Two.


	3. Chapter 3

Prologue

"Jeez, Dad, what are you waiting for?" Dean said, fingers idly toying with Sammy's hair. His younger brother was curled next to him on the bed, eyes fixed on his book. "$25, 000? That could set us up for a long time."

John shrugged, gazing out the window through the plastic blinds. "I know," he conceded. "But I already had to go on TV and show your pictures to the whole world when we were looking for you. If you boys are ever going to get your normal lives back..."

Dean smoothed a soft brown curl between his fingers and glanced down. Sammy's eyes had left his book and he was looking up at him somberly. His little brother still wasn't saying much, but Dean understood him just fine.

"Things are never going to be normal again," Dean said quietly. Then he looked up at his father's pained face with a smile. "Dad, Sammy and me will be old news in a few weeks. But twenty-five G's is twenty-five G's. Right?"

"They just want me to take a few pictures of you for a magazine spread and give them some copies of old snapshots. And of course they want an exclusive interview. With me, not you boys." John's jaw tightened and his gaze lingered on Sam, who was bent back over his book. "They know better than to ask to interview you two."

Dean had heard the nurse's story of his father pretty much beating up the two journalists who'd snuck in and got to Sam. He carded his hand through Sam's hair and gently cupped the nape of his brother's neck. Part of Sam was still curled in on itself, grieving and sore. The journalists responsible were lucky Dean had been unconscious at the time, or he'd have been right there helping his dad kick the snot out of them.

"You should do it," Dean said firmly, and John nodded. Unspoken was the understanding that a great many other people had probably offered a lot more money for interviews with the two of them. Unspoken because for no amount of money would his father put him and Sam through any more.

Sam had dozed off in that sudden way he had these days, and Dean smoothed his thumb over the flickering pulse in his throat. "Sammy's going to be okay, Dad."

John crossed to the bed and touched Sammy's hand where it lay on his book. "I just wish he'd say more," he murmured thickly. "It hurts to see him so... closed in on himself."

"He's just healing," Dean told him. "Being... down there. So quiet and isolated for so long. Everything out here feels loud and jarring. It's like he's bruised, Dad. And he's just protecting himself for a while till it fades a bit."

"Did he tell you that?" John asked curiously.

Dean shrugged. "He doesn't have to," he said. "I feel the same way."

His father tilted his head. "Do I have to worry about you going quiet on me as well?" he asked, half joking, half serious.

Dean huffed a laugh. "It's different for me. Sam understands that. He knows I'll be all right as long as I have him to look after."

"You've done a good job so far," John said, and curved a hand over Dean's shoulder and squeezed.

Dean accepted the compliment, wondering a little at himself as he did. Once it would have meant the world to him, words like that from his father. Now, however, the only praise he needed was the warmth of his brother's body next to him as Sammy sighed in his sleep and curled a little closer.

**The Promise**

**By **Gillian Middleton

Part Three

The cabin by the lake had been Pastor Jim's idea. A friend of a friend owned it and lent it out. It had one dirt road leading down to it, and anyone traveling on it let the occupants of the cabin know they were coming long minutes in advance by the dusty plume thrown up behind them. It had the basics of life: electricity; indoor plumbing; soft, comfortable beds. And all around it was a wide veranda, covered with chairs and hammocks and benches.

That it was a place for hunters to rest and heal was obvious. Dreamcatchers spun lazily over the beds. Fine white patches marked the spots on the wooden floors where years of feet had trodden rock salt into the grain. An ancient iron horseshoe hung over the door.

And there was an air of peace about the place that they all felt at once. Even as Dean let his dad and Sammy help him from the back of the car, even as he stood and looked up at the faded old wooden cabin, he felt it.

Sam felt it, too. He hovered next to Dean as they climbed the low stairs to the veranda, but his eyes were all over the place, brighter and more alive than Dean had seen them in weeks. Down through the trees was the glimmer of the lake, brilliant blue in the April sunshine, and Sam paused for a moment at the railing and stared, eyes half-closing in pleasure at the sight. Dean leaned against him, accepting the supporting hand at his waist.

It had been a shock at first, for both of them, leaving the hospital. Dean had felt his heart start pounding in his chest as the wheelchair he was in was pushed closer to the back doors. They had left in the early hours, their departure a secret from all but the staff on the ward. The Impala had been parked by the kitchens; his dad and Sammy had walked beside him. Patches of sunlight had glimmered through the glass doors, and it had been almost a relief when Sam's steps faltered, because Dean was being pushed forward and couldn't bring himself to object.

"It's okay, Sam," Dad had said. And that had given Dean a chance to catch his breath.

It was the first time either of them had been outside in six weeks.

Sam had stayed close to him when his dad helped him up, and Dean remembered stumbling down the stairs almost in a daze, overwhelmed by the sun and the noise and the smells. Then there had been a moment when Dean had leaned against the open door of the car with Sammy pressed against him and their dad loading their bags into the trunk.

Dean had seen Sam's head tilt, and his breath had caught in his throat as he followed that gaze upwards. In the heartbreaking blue of the April sky, a small white cloud scudded slowly across the wide expanse. The gentle breeze that guided it had caressed his face, stirred his hair, made him shiver a little with its early morning chill.

The unease that had gripped him slid away, and he couldn't help a small huff of pleasure. Next to him, Sammy had shrugged, the corner of his mouth turning up.

Leaning against the veranda now, looking out on the view of their newest temporary home, Dean pressed against Sam and saw that half-smile blooming, a pleased flush mantling his little brother's pale cheeks.

It was a pretty good place.

666

John tossed them a set of keys which Sam narrowly missed. Dean snickered, and Sam poked his tongue out and bent over to scoop them up.

"Go on inside and pick out a bedroom," Dad said, a duffel bag thrown over his shoulder and a gym bag in each hand. "I'll make up your beds, and you can catch a nap."

"A nap?" Dean complained, holding onto the doorjamb as Sam twisted a big iron key and the door opened with a creak. "Can't we walk down to the lake?"

John cast him an incredulous look as he carried the bags into the hall. "Dean, a puff of wind could blow on you right now and you'd fall over. Go find a room, and I'll look for the linen closet."

Dean followed Sam down the hall, turning into a big, airy room with wide, double-glass doors leading onto the veranda. Sam unbolted the doors and flung them open, taking a deep breath of clean air. Dean collapsed on the edge of a bed, feeling the drag of exhaustion in his limbs. He hated the fact that a few hours snoozing in the back seat could wear him out. He hated the fact that he could hardly remember what it felt like to feel strong.

"Good choice," John approved, dumping an armful of sheets and blankets on the bed Dean was sitting on and shaking a sheet out over the adjoining bed. "Sammy, I left the tin of salt by the door. Can you go get it and freshen those rings up?"

Sam nodded and trotted out, and John followed him with his eyes for a moment before tucking the sheet in and throwing another over the top. "Think you'll like it here, kiddo?"

Dean nodded, eyes drooping. Despite his protests, that bed was looking pretty welcoming right now, and he barely waited for the blanket to settle before toeing off his sneakers and standing up unsteadily. His father pulled a corner back and took Dean's elbow as he sat on the freshly made bed.

"Rest," John said gently. "You, too, Sammy," he said as Sam returned with the salt. "I'll finish that."

Sam handed the can over and kicked his own shoes off. Without a word, he pulled the covers down, climbed over Dean, and settled against the wall with a sigh. Dean pulled the covers back up and snuggled down, breathing in the slightly musty scent of the clean sheets. He figured a person had to sleep on the same old sheets for a month before they could really appreciate how much that was worth.

"Sammy, I'll make up the other bed for you," John said, an odd ring to his voice, and Dean cracked open his eyes and looked at their father curiously.

"It's okay, Dad," he murmured as Sam curled against him.

"Sammy, Dean needs his rest more than you do right now. Why don't you climb into your own bed so you don't disturb him?"

It was a suggestion that sounded more like an order, but Sam kept his eyes closed and Dean could hardly keep his open.

"It's okay," he repeated sleepily. "I'm used to it."

As Dean drifted off, he thought for long seconds that his dad had left the room, and then there was the snap of sheets being shaken out and the lemony tang of the fabric in the air. But John didn't say anything else.

666

Dean woke with a start, eyes flying open and staring blankly up at the ceiling. Yellowing old plaster, cracked and peeling, loomed above him, pressing him down. Panic caught at his chest, choked him, sobbed in his throat as he tried to take a breath. For endless seconds he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, pinned in place by weakness and fear.

"Dean?" Hands gripped him, caught his shoulders, a face swam into his vision - wide, anxious eyes; long strands of hair falling over his brow.

"Sammy," he gasped, panting for breath. Sammy was here, Sammy was afraid, tears in his eyes, fingers trembling as he cupped Dean's cheek. He had to be strong for Sammy's sake. Dean took a deep breath and blinked, and over Sam's shoulder he saw wooden beams, dusty and a little cobwebby at the corners.

"Dean?" Sammy whispered, and, heart still pounding, Dean closed his eyes and opened them again, assuring himself that they were out of that place. Memories came rushing back and he groaned, rolling away from Sam, thrusting his feet over the side of the bed. "Get Dad?" Sammy said anxiously, and Dean shook his head, feeling the beads of sweat on his brow. His heart was still pounding in his chest; he had to bite his lip to stop his jaw from trembling.

"Dean?" Sam said again, and Dean turned his head, hating the look of fear on his brother's face.

"I'm okay," he managed.

Sam looked doubtful. "Dad?" he said again.

"No, Sam, I mean it," Dean ground out. "And don't give me that look," he added harshly when Sam gazed back at him. "You should be more worried about yourself than me, dude. You're the one who hasn't strung more than three words together in weeks."

Sam blinked at him, his worried look fading. He shook his head a little, eyes crinkling as he huffed a silent laugh. Dean hung his head and smothered a remorseful snort of his own. Long fingers cupped his cheek, turned his head, and they leaned forward, foreheads gently pressed together. Dean's panic was settling, his heartbeat slowing under Sam's calming touch.

"Sorry," Dean whispered.

"Bad dream," Sam said sympathetically, and Dean closed his eyes. There was no hiding anything from Sam. Every morning in the hospital, they had awoken to a nurse shooing Sam back to his own bed. The doctor had shaken his head over it; their father had set his jaw and tried not to worry about it.

They all thought that poor, silent Sam was seeking comfort in the night, and Dean didn't even have the guts to tell them any different. To tell them that he was the one needing comfort and Sam had instinctively known it.

Dean cast a look at the ceiling, a shiver running down his spine. In those moments after waking, it had seemed so real. Endless, frightening moments when rescue was forgotten and all he had to wake up to was hunger and pain.

Sam was still studying him, questions in his eyes. In the hospital, the doctor had told them not to blame Sam for not talking. The anxiety disorder he was suffering from was as real as the pneumonia that had weakened Dean's body. With time, the doctor said, Sam might recover his normal voice, might be able to verbally share what he was feeling.

But right now Sam wasn't communicating. Neither was Dean. He just made sure nobody knew that.

Except Sam, of course.

"I don't want to worry Dad any more," Dean explained, this time avoiding the silent understanding in his brother's eyes. "I'm hungry," he continued prosaically, and Sam nodded and pulled away from him. "And I need to pee." He stood up with a groan, rubbing absently at the old, dull ache in his chest. At least it didn't hurt to breathe any more.

Sam crawled past him and thrust long limbs from the bed, standing up and yawning. He turned and offered his big brother his hand, but Dean shook it off irritably. "Now who's treating who like a baby?" he muttered.

Sam just lifted one brow and followed him out of the room. Dean stopped in the middle of the hall and turned a quizzical look on him. "Dude, didn't you get tired of watching me go to the bathroom a long time ago?"

Sam's shrug managed to convey the idea that it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, so what was the problem?

"Sam," Dean said quietly. "I'm okay. You don't have to hover around me."

John stuck his head around the corner. "I thought I heard voices," he said, and ran a glance over his eldest son. "Dude, you need a haircut."

Dean lifted a hand to his head and smoothed down the fair waves. Damn hair was sticking up like a crest. "Bathroom?"

"The white door," John said, pointing to it.

"Me first," Dean said with a pointed look at Sam, before closing the door behind him.

"There's another bathroom in my room, Sam," he heard Dad say, but Sam was waiting outside the bathroom door when Dean emerged, and he stalked past Dean and poked his tongue out again.

"Yeah, Sammy, that was cute when you were five," Dean told the closed door. He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, forcing a smile onto his face. Then he took a deep breath and walked down the hall.

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah." Dean sat down at the kitchen table and leaned forward on his elbows. "When am I gonna stop feeling like an old man?"

John laid a basket of hot rolls on the table and ruffled Dean's hair on the way back to the bench. "Doc said it would take a couple of weeks to get your strength back."

"That sucks," Dean said. "I need to get back into shape, Dad. And start training again."

"Training can wait," John said firmly, carrying a casserole dish over and lifting the lid.

Dean gaped at him. "Training can wait? Who are you and what have you done with my father?"

"We have the cabin for as long as we need it." John turned a smile on Sam as he padded in, still in stocking feet. "And we have plenty of cash, thanks to _The Weekly News_ magazine. Like I said, training can wait until you guys are up to it."

"Yeah, when do we get to read that story anyway?" Dean asked, ladling out a helping of lasagna for himself and handing Sam the spoon.

"Uh, let's see, never?" John said. "Seriously, dude, why would you want to?"

Dean blinked, unsure himself. "I just wanted to see what pictures you gave them of us," he said lightly, and John gave him a wink.

"Don't worry, Dean. That one of you naked on the bearskin rug will never know the light of day."

Sam laughed and Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Knock yourself out, little brother," he said. "Maybe Dad gave them that one he took of you in the bathtub when you were three."

Sam glanced suspiciously from him to their father.

"Don't worry," Dean said patronizingly. "You can hardly see your little dingle. You had too much mud on you."

"Mostly mud," John corrected, but Sam refused to bite. He just shook his head and went back to his meal.

"You're no fun," Dean complained.

They finished the meal quietly. Dad nodded at the boxes of groceries he'd packed away and mentioned that he planned to make another trip into town in a few days.

"So if there's anything in particular you want, add it to the list."

"M&M's," Dean said automatically. "And chips. Beer?" he added hopefully.

"Definitely," John said. "All for me."

"Dad," Dean started in his best reasonable tone.

"Dean," John said mockingly. "You're on medication. No alcohol, even if I was inclined to share my beer. Which I'm not."

"Being sick sucks," Dean said, pushing away his plate.

"You can't finish that?" John nodded at the remains of the meal on Dean's plate. "It wasn't even that big a serving."

Dean pushed the plate at Sam, who finished his own meal and set about finishing his brother's. "The doctor said a lot of small meals are better for a while, anyway. So." Dean looked around. "Where's the TV?"

"Uh, yeah. About that." John looked apologetic.

"Dude, you're kidding," Dean said incredulously. Then he gave a hopeful smile. "You are kidding, aren't you?"

"Sorry," John said, shrugging.

"Where's that shopping list?" Dean said. "Put 'Buy A TV Set' on it right now."

"I'm not even sure we'd get reception out here," John said reasonably. "I'll call Pastor Jim to ask, and maybe pick up a secondhand set in town."

"What am I supposed to do until then?"

"Sleep," John said. "Take some short walks with Sam. There's an old barn out back with some fishing rods."

Dean's mouth turned down and he slumped back over the table. "As if I haven't suffered enough," he said gloomily.

"Well, why not take a leaf out of Sammy's book?"

Sam looked up from the last bread roll he was buttering.

"And read a book," John advised, standing up and clearing the table.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm more a magazine person," he explained. "I prefer blurb to text. And lots and lots of pictures. Preferably of cars. Preferably with scantily clad women leaning against cars."

Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. In the hospital, a book trolley had come around the wards, and Sam had borrowed a couple, devouring them in two days. Word had somehow gotten around the hospital, and books had begun arriving: adventure, mystery, sci-fi. Sam soon had a box of books that had occupied the front seat of the Chevy on the drive to the cabin and that now sat on the floor by the kitchen bench.

"There's always the old stand-by," John said, tossing a worn old pack of cards on the table. "Who wants to deal?"

666

By 8:30, Dean was drooping again, and John gathered up the cards and ordered him to bed. Dean was too tired to argue.

"Tomorrow I'll get the clippers out and cut your hair. What about you, Sam?"

Sam half-shrugged and stood as Dean pushed his chair back.

"You don't have to go to bed yet," John told him. "You're not recovering from pneumonia. Stay up and read for a while."

Sam just shrugged again and left the room. John's face was a study in exasperation, and Dean smirked and patted his father's shoulder on the way past.

"Bet you never thought you'd miss arguing with him," he said.

"Dean?" John said, and Dean turned around, rubbing at his eyes.

"Yeah?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head. "Never mind. Sleep well."

666

Sam was already in bed when Dean shut the light off, leaving the door ajar. The hallway light shone through the crack in the doorway, spilling an angle of yellow light over the dusty floor boards. Tinny music from the old radio in the kitchen echoed softly down the hall. Dean padded over to the bed and sat down, pulling off his socks and tossing them onto the unused bed.

"Dad mad?" Sam asked.

Dean shot him a look over his shoulder and sighed. "Just a little freaked. You know, you could have sat up for a while and read. Not made it so obvious you couldn't wait to leap into bed with me, subtlety-boy."

"Tired," Sam said stubbornly.

"Yeah, me, too," Dean said, climbing under the covers and stretching out. Sam pressed against the wall next to him, his body inches away and Dean could tell by the quality of the silence that he was upset. "Come here, dummy," he whispered, and reached out to tug him closer.

"You mad?" Sam mumbled, and Dean shook his head, pressing his lips to Sam's temple.

"What do you think? Dad just doesn't understand, Sammy." He sighed. "He thinks I'm giving into you. Babying you. And I don't know how to tell him..." Dean broke off, swallowing hard.

Sam's fingers curved around his neck, cupped the back of his head, stroked through his hair.

Dean jerked under the touch, curving closer, pressing Sam to him.

"He doesn't understand how much I need you," Dean whispered.

Sam nodded, turning his mouth to Dean's and ghosting over his parted lips. Then he was pushing Dean over onto his side and curling in behind him, wide hand sliding over his hip and underneath his t-shirt.

"Want a story?" he breathed against his brother's neck, and Dean's tension faded. He chuckled and then squirmed as knowing fingers slid over his belly and pressed low and hard where it sloped down to his groin.

"Think you can put that many words together, Sammy?"

"Words?" Sam scoffed, then began to press a series of suckling kisses onto the nape of his neck, while his hand slid that necessary inch or so lower.

Dean bit back a groan, all too aware of their father down the hall, and caught Sam's hand, wrapped his own around it, guided it. For weeks in the hospital, all he'd wanted was Sam close to him, safe by his side. Alive and well. And now, in an instant it was all back, Sam's want and desire crashing over him like a wave, carrying him, lifting him. Turning him on so hard and so quickly he was spurting before Sam had even worked up a good rhythm.

Sam was chuckling against the back of his neck, but the warm, mellow feeling in Dean's belly was spreading through him, smothering any irritation he might have felt at his little brother's smugness.

"I totally spooged you," he grunted, guiding both their hands for a few last, smooth strokes, teasing tiny, trembling aftershocks from his loins.

Sam started to wipe his hand on Dean's t-shirt but Dean caught it and lifted it, taking a deep breath of the scent of their linked fingers.

"Hey, Sammy? I dare you to lick it," he whispered, belly quivering at the thought. Sam bucked involuntarily against him, and Dean felt his brother's dick, freed from his track pants, pressing against the small of his back.

"Gross," Sam muttered, but he was already lifting his hand, and Dean twisted his head, eyes widening as Sam's tongue emerged and licked down the length of his own index finger.

"Shit," Dean hissed, and he turned in Sam's arms, now feeling that leaking heat against his belly, pressing and jerking as Sam licked his lips thoughtfully. "Shit," Dean repeated, and then he was tasting his own come as he crushed Sammy's flushed lips beneath his own. Dean slid his hand, still slick with his essence, down Sam's belly and found his dick, long and thin, flushed and hard and hot. He pumped urgently, swirled his thumb around the head, thrust his tongue into Sam's mouth and then pumped again, all the time smothering Sam's little panting cries of pleasure.

Always, even in their darkened prison, it had been like this. Quiet and hushed, as if their touches were too private and secret to be spoken aloud. As if even that stifling dimness was a presence intruding upon them. Dad worried about how close they were already, he sure as hell wouldn't understand this. Dean had stopped trying to understand it a long time ago.

He just knew he needed it, needed Sammy now, and that it was a bone-deep need. Sam protected himself with his silences; it wasn't stubbornness, but a real anxiety that kept all his fears and pain locked up inside him. And yet with Dean, in the privacy of their nest, he could communicate everything he needed.

Dean protected himself like always, with a grin and a careless shrug. But here, in their private place, he could admit to himself what Sammy instinctively knew. That he was hanging on by a thread. That nightmares plagued him. That sometimes his hands shook and his chest hurt and he would swear he could smell once more the damp, musty fug of their prison.

Under his hand, Sammy was coming, skin taut as he arched and whimpered, quivering and sighing his pleasure. With a contented hum, he lifted their twined hands, and Dean needed no prompting to lick Sam's finger, tasting both of them on it, swallowing gratefully. And the wave crested and carried them over, washing their tangled limbs to shore. They lay panting in each other's arms, breathing each other's breath.

Eased into a deep and hopefully dreamless sleep.

666

Dean sat on the verandah, towel around his neck, John standing behind him.

"One straight back and sides coming up."

"Just get rid of all the girly wavy bits," Dean said, crossing his arms impatiently. He shot a smirk at Sam, perched on the steps, ever-present book in his hands. "One girly haircut per family is enough."

"Sam's next, aren't you, Sammy?" John said, carefully trimming the tender nape of Dean's neck.

Sam shook his head, eyes firmly on the book.

"I promise I won't cut it too short," John coaxed and Dean smothered a smile. Their dad was so not the coaxing type. Usually he'd be ordering Sam into the chair, Sam would be getting that mulish set to his jaw, and in five minutes John's face would be red and Sam would be stalking off somewhere to brood.

Coaxing seemed to be working better, though; Sam had tilted his head and was considering it.

"Come on, dude," Dean joined in. "You're gonna be cooking under that mop when it starts getting hot."

"Dean'll make sure I don't go nuts and give you a military do," John said.

Sam considered a moment longer before he finally nodded, and Dean relaxed under the gentle buzz of the old battery-powered clippers with a silent sigh of relief. Things would be a lot easier if Dad got his way now and then. At the moment, he was being a model of patience and restraint, but Dean knew his father well enough to know that that wasn't going to last long.

He also knew him well enough to know that their sleeping arrangements were going to be coming under scrutiny soon. Their father hadn't said anything, and Dean was pretty sure he didn't suspect anything - he wasn't that restrained. But he didn't like it, that much was clear. He'd put a stop to Sammy crawling into Dean's bed at night years ago, and with the benefit of teenage wisdom and experience, Dean realized it was just about the time he was hitting puberty.

Dean hadn't actually minded so much then. Privacy was becoming an issue, and there was nothing like waking up with morning wood under the curious eye of your little brother to really cramp your style. And Sammy had reached the 'I'm a big boy now' stage, as well, so it hadn't been that big a drama.

And that's how it would have stayed, if everything hadn't changed.

666

After their haircuts they walked down to the lake, Sammy rubbing curiously at his new, shorter hair. Dad had parted it down one side and combed it flat, and Dean wasn't sure he liked it. It made Sammy looked about six again, when Dad used to wet the comb to pull it through his curls, then flatten it all down to look presentable.

Sam did now what he used to do then: he ran his long fingers through it and ruffled it up.

Dad carried the fishing rods and an old woven tackle box over his shoulder, Sam had blankets and his book, and Dean was allowed to carry a bottle of water and nothing else. It was an easy walk through long grass, but Dean was still glad to arrive at the shore and collapse onto the blanket that Sam shook out on the ground.

"How many fish do you want, boys?"

Dean and Sam exchanged looks. They'd never known their father to fish a day in their lives.

"Uh, our lunch isn't gonna depend on you catching anything, is it?" Dean said, glancing doubtfully at the smooth surface of the water.

"Oh, ye of little faith," John said, tossing down the spare rods. "I'll have you know I used to go fishing all the time before you were born. Of course, that was fly fishing, in a river," he conceded, peering at the fishing reel. "Which is slightly different, I grant you."

"This should be interesting."

"Don't worry," John said absently. "You won't starve." Then he froze, breath caught in his throat. He looked so stricken that Dean instantly forgave him, and fought down the flare of pain that caught in his chest. John's remorseful gaze shot from him to Sam, who was sitting cross-legged, gazing blankly down at his book. His fingers were gripping the edges and he was swallowing hard.

"Long as we don't have to eat beans, hey, Sammy?" Dean said carefully, laying a gentle hand on Sam's back and stroking. John took a step towards them, but Dean shook his head, knowing that Sammy would shake out of the momentary shock in a few seconds. Little things reminded Dean all the time, but he breathed deeply and got through it. Sam did the same, taking a deep breath, and then another.

Finally he relaxed under Dean's hand, fingers uncurling from the edges of the book. He glanced up at Dean and gave a small shrug.

"Or peaches," he said hoarsely, and Dean smiled and pulled him close for a second, squeezing his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his ear.

"Never never again," Dean agreed. "Even peach cobbler is right out."

John was still standing, holding the fishing rod, looking forlorn. Sam looked over at him and gave him a small smile, and John mustered a tentative smile in return and turned back to his work.

666

Despite the less than promising beginning, the outing was a success. Dean stretched out on the blanket, content to let the dappled sunlight and the gentle breeze play over him. Sam lay at an angle to him, book propped on his chest, head on Dean's shoulder.

John caught three fish.

666

Days passed slowly, long and bright, with the promise of early summer. Every morning they trekked to the lake to fish; every afternoon Dean and Sam napped, lying on top of the bed with only a sheet thrown over them, long white curtains billowing into the room, stirring the salt into patterns on the floor. Sam didn't need the naps like Dean did, but despite their father's gentle hints, he wouldn't let Dean rest alone. Dean would often jolt awake and search instantly for Sam, always finding him by his side, eyes full of concern.

In the evening they played cards, or read, and Dean reluctantly picked up _Ender's Game_ and was instantly absorbed, head bent over the book, glancing up every now and then to feel his brother's eyes on him. Dad worked on his journal, looked through his own books, making notes, writing steadily in his strong, sloping hand.

At night they climbed into bed and curled together beneath the covers, spooned together on their sides, hands linked over Sam's belly. Sometimes their father looked in on them before making his own way to bed; Dean would open his eyes and see him standing in the doorway gazing at them, outlined by the dim light from the hall.

Eventually the door would creak closed, and Sam would turn in his arms and nuzzle against him. And they'd get lost in each other again.

666

A few days after they arrived, John declared that it was time to restock the larder.

"Don't forget the TV," Dean reminded him, sitting curled up on the worn old couch.

"I thought you were enjoying your book,' John said, scanning his shopping list.

"Seriously, Dad." Dean forced a grin. "I'm going into _The Simpson's_ withdrawal here."

"Okay, dude," John said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll look for a secondhand set." He paused, scratched at his chin as if turning something over in his mind, and finally reached into his jacket.

He pulled out Dean's .45. "I'll only be a few hours," he said. "Will you two be all right?"

Dean reached out and took the gun, feeling the weight of it. Sam looked on solemnly as Dean wrapped his hand around the butt, letting the familiarity of it soak into him. This was power in his hand, protection for him and Sammy. If he'd had a gun on the street that day...

"If anyone shows up, stay out of sight and wait for me to come back," John ordered. "Don't go any further than the lake."

"Yes, sir," Dean said, checking the safety and stowing the gun in the back of his waistband. It pressed against him, its weight both reassuring and worrying. They trooped out onto the veranda and watched John reverse the car and drive off down the rutted driveway, following the plume of dust until it disappeared around the bend.

It was the first time they'd been alone since their prison. Sam slipped his hand into Dean's and squeezed. Dean shot him a rueful smile.

"Weird, huh? All the stuff we survived, just the two of us. Now I feel like a cat on hot bricks."

"Walk?" Sam said, nodding towards the lake.

Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay. But no fishing."

Sam grinned.

666

They found their usual spot and sat down on a blanket, gazing out at the still surface of the lake. A cooler wind was coming up, and grey clouds edged the horizon. Dean drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees.

"Okay?" Sam asked, and Dean shot him a look. His little brother sat cross-legged next to him, his closed book on his lap.

"Always," Dean said lightly. Then he jumped as Sam swung the book and hit him on the knee with it. "Hey!"

"Are you okay?" Sam repeated.

"Careful, Sammy," Dean said sarcastically, rubbing his knee. "That almost sounded like a complete sentence."

Sam glared, and Dean glared right back. He knew what his brother meant, but damned if he was going to play Dean-bares-his-soul today.

That morning he'd woken shaking and panicked, tears on his face, the smell of damp earth in his nostrils. Heart racing, he'd stumbled out of bed and fumbled for the bolts, finally easing the top one as Sam's steady hands unbolted the bottom. Then he'd pushed the doors open wide and stood braced in the doorway, sobbing in one deep breath after another until he'd felt light headed.

And Sam had stood beside him, clutching the back of his t-shirt, as if Dean might suddenly take flight and disappear into the fresh, new day.

Since then he'd felt Sam's concerned eyes on him a dozen times. He felt them now, beneath the anger and the frustration.

"I'm okay," Dean said gently.

Sam opened and closed his mouth, shook his head, banged his book on his own knee, and Dean realized that his little brother really was trying to speak. For weeks, Sam's words had been clipped and brief, his body language doing all the talking for him. John and Dean hadn't pushed him to talk, and Sam had seemed content to let his eloquent shrugs and silences speak for him.

But now he was struggling for words, a sheen of tears in his eyes. Dean wanted to reach for him, but forced himself to stay still. This was Sam's battle; Dean could not fight it for him.

"Come on, Sammy," he whispered. "You got something to say, little brother?"

"I'm scared," Sam managed finally, chest panting as if he'd been running. "Worried... Your nightmares..." He broke off, shaking his head. "I don't know what to do."

"You're doing okay so far," Dean coaxed. "Talk to me, Sam. Tell me what's worrying you."

"You are!" Sammy burst out. And then it was like a dam had broken, and words poured from him in a gush. "Y-your eyes when you wake up, and you look at me like you don't know me! Th-this morning when you couldn't breathe, I th-thought you were gonna smash the glass doors to get out! It's getting worse, Dean, and y-you don't even want to admit it!"

"Whoa," Dean said, taken aback. "Well, I guess I asked for that."

"You didn't tell the doctors, you won't talk to Dad," Sammy said breathlessly. "I f-feel like I'm all that's holding you together, and what if I mess it up? This morning I couldn't even call Dad for help!"

"Okay, Sam, calm down," Dean said as Sam's chest rose and fell with panicked breaths. "You done good, okay? You got your words out." Dean grabbed Sam's shaking hands and squeezed. "You realize that, right? You're talking?"

Sam's hands squeezed back and he blinked rapidly. "I guess," he said dazedly. "I don't think I really tried before. I just got scared this morning, that's all."

"Hey, well if that's what it takes," Dean teased. "It was almost worth me freaking out."

Sam glared and pushed his hands away. "Don't joke!"

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said reasonably. "I'm sorry you were scared, okay? I didn't realize I was putting too much on you."

"That's not what I meant," Sam shot back. "I want to be there for you, it's all I want! But what if I screw up, Dean? What if you need me and I'm not there for you? That's what I mean."

Dean absorbed this. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I get that." He caught Sam's eyes, and all the memories were there, just below the surface. "I get that," he repeated. "But, Sammy, it's okay. I'll be okay."

Sam looked doubtful. "Dean..." he began, but Dean cut him off.

"Listen, Sam, I had pneumonia, and I got over it, right? You've barely said a word in three weeks, but you're getting over it. This will get better, too."

"I want you to tell Dad," Sam said.

"Sammy..."

"Please, Dean," Sam said. "Just let him know what's going on?"

Dean sighed. "All right, I'll talk to Dad."

Sam looked hopeful. "Really?"

"Really."

Sam's shoulders relaxed a little, and the pinched, worried look faded from his face. "Okay," he said.

"That doesn't mean you get to go quiet on me again," Dean warned.

"I didn't mean to." Sam frowned, looking as if he was groping for words. "I didn't mean to stop talking." He shrugged. "I just couldn't..." He broke off in frustration.

"Dad said you were talking okay at first," Dean reminded him. "Then those reporters came."

"They had a camera," Sam said. "And the light was so bright it hurt my eyes. I was worried about you," he confessed. "Because you were still sedated. I felt helpless again."

Dean hid his anger at the reporter who'd slipped past hospital security and tried to get a scoop. "I'm sorry, Sam," he murmured.

Sam looked down at his hands. "Did you know about... those others?" he asked faintly.

Dean laid his hands on Sam's knees and pressed reassuringly. "Dad told me," he said.

"I saw their faces in the picture," Sam said. "And I _knew_, Dean. I _knew_ what they suffered. I knew how they died. I knew that could have been us, and no one would have ever found us, either."

Dean couldn't take the torment on Sam's face a moment longer; he stretched out his arms and Sam crawled into them, curling into his lap like a little child. Dean held him close as he'd held him in their prison, arms wrapped tightly around the person he loved with everything that was in him. He could feel Sam's heart beating in his chest, fluttering like a caged bird behind his ribs.

"Sammy?" he said seriously. "Sammy, do you remember how it was for us, there at the end?"

Sam's hands clutched at his arms. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Remember how we even stopped being so scared? Because we knew that it was nearly over, and soon it was all going to stop hurting?"

Sam nodded jerkily against his chest.

"Well, that's what it was like for them, there at the end," Dean said with hushed certainty. "And now their suffering is over, and they're together, and there's no more pain, or hunger."

Sam drew in a shuddering breath.

"They're gone, Sammy," Dean continued. "And you have to let it go, too."

"I'll try," Sam said, then he turned his head to his brother's breast, and Dean felt his shoulders shake as he shed a few tears. Dean tilted his head back and gazed blindly at the sky, tears pooling in his own eyes. Gratitude that Sammy was talking again. Grief for the ones that nobody could save. Wonder at Sam's warmth and strength in his arms.

That was all worth a few tears.

666

Drops of rain had already started to fall when the Impala turned in the drive and roared down to the cabin. Sam and Dean met John on the porch, and he swung out of the car and ran a comprehensive look over them, just as he always did when he came back from a trip, long or short.

"All right, boys?" he asked, just as he always did.

"Yes, sir," they chorused, and Dean shot Sam a glance and raised one brow.

"Hey, Dad," Sam said cheerfully, accepting the sack of groceries. "Did you get the TV?"

"Yeah, I-" John spun around. "Sammy?"

"Hey, Dad, guess what?" Dean grinned, patting Sam on the back. "Sammy's talking again."

John stepped closer, and Sam shrugged a little bashfully. "It's no big deal."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sam," John said, one of his rare, wide smiles breaking out. He reached over and clapped Sam on the shoulder, squeezing hard. Sam shrugged again, a pink flush on his cheeks.

"It's starting to rain," he pointed out, and for a moment or two longer John just stared at him, foolish grin on his face. Then he absorbed the words and frowned.

"Dean, grab that sack from Sammy and get out of the rain. You've only been out of the hospital for a week."

"Yes, sir," Dean said smartly, grabbing the sack and climbing the stairs.

"And put a sweater on," John called. "Keep your chest warm."

Dean stood at the top of the stairs and watched his father haul out another sack of groceries and put it in Sam's arms. "Go take care of your brother," he ordered softly and Sam nodded and followed Dean up the stairs. John pushed the rain damp hair back on his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment.

Dean nudged Sam with his shoulder and left his dad to it.

666

The TV reception was fine, and they set it up in the kitchen so that they could watch while they prepared dinner. Sam and Dean chopped up the salad while John heated the tacos and cooked up the beef and refried beans. It was the perfect meal for a cool, rainy evening.

Dean pushed his plate away and drained the last of his coke, while _The Simpson's_ played in the background. He kept his eyes on the screen, trying to pretend that Sammy wasn't nudging him under the table and nodding towards their father. Finally, he nudged back and glared, and Sam set his jaw and sat back in his chair.

"Sammy," John said, helping himself to another beer. "Would you mind getting started on the dishes? I want to have a private word with Dean. Out on the veranda," he said to Dean, nodding to the front of the house.

Now the look Dean exchanged with Sam was tinged with dread. What did their father want to talk to him about privately?

"Sure, Dad," Sam said, and John paused and smiled at him.

"It's good to hear your voice, son."

Sam smiled back at his father, waited till his back was turned and raised curious eyes at Dean. Dean shrugged, more than a little bit spooked.

Out on the veranda, John settled back in the old wicker chair. "So, Dean," he said casually. "What's going on between you and Sammy?"

Dean's heart froze in his chest, his breath catching in his throat. "What?" he managed.

"All those frowns and significant nods he's been giving you all evening. I get the feeling there's something he wants you to tell me."

Dean's breath escaped in a rush, and he felt light-headed for a moment. "Oh," he said stupidly, shock vying with relief. "Uh, yeah, there is."

John lifted his beer to his lips and took a healthy swig. "Well?"

After everything that had just rushed through his mind in the last few seconds, it was almost easy to open up now and admit the truth to his father.

"Uh, I've, um, been having these dreams," Dean began slowly.

John frowned, and Dean rushed on.

"Nightmares," he amended. "I guess they've been getting kind of... intense."

John leaned forward, wicker creaking under his weight. "What do you mean, intense?"

Dean shrugged awkwardly. "I mean, hardly like dreams at all. I wake up and it's like I'm back there, you know? And I'm awake, but I'm still trapped in the dream. I can smell that damp, earthy smell. I can feel the pressure of the walls beating down on me." Dean wrapped his arms around his chest as the memories rose, stark and bare. "This morning, I woke up and I could hardly breathe. I... I guess I scared Sam." He trailed off awkwardly. "Which might have been a good thing, because it got him mad enough to start yelling at me, and he couldn't do that without talking again."

John studied him for long moments in the light of the full moon, and Dean squirmed a little under that serious gaze. He half-wished now that he'd kept it to himself, as he'd intended all along. His father had enough to worry about without hearing what a wuss his oldest son was being.

John heaved himself out of the chair and sat down next to Dean on the top step.

"These dreams," he asked quietly. "You say you can smell your prison? You physically feel like you're there again?"

Dean nodded.

John took another deep pull at his beer. "I had a friend in the Corps," he said softly. "Bennet Cobb - Benny we called him. I met him the last year of my tour and we..." John huffed a laugh and shook his head. "Well, let's just say, we went through a lot together, one way or another. He was from Kansas, and we kept in touch for a while when we got home."

Dean turned on the step and studied John's face. His dad never really talked much about those years.

"Couple months after we got home, I get a call from the VA. Benny..." John cleared his throat. "Benny tried to cut his wrists." John caught his son's eyes. "He was suffering from PTSD. Like Sammy was. Like you are, Dean."

Dean shook his head automatically. "No, Dad," he said shakily. "I've just been having some bad dreams, that's all."

John patted his shoulder, eyes sympathetic. "I think you've been having flashbacks, son. They're like nightmares, only much more vivid and frightening. Benny said he could smell the jungle, hear the choppers. That it was like he was back there."

Dean looked away blindly, caught up once again in memories.

"Benny was one of the bravest men I knew," John said. "But he was also a stubborn S.O.B. who didn't want to admit to what he saw as a weakness. Until it was almost too late for him."

"It - it feels like a weakness," Dean admitted, unable to meet his father's eyes.

"Well, it's not. No more than what happened to Sammy meant he was weak. You don't believe that, do you?"

"No!" Dean said vehemently. "You don't know how brave he was, Dad. When I was so sick I couldn't help him or comfort him any more, he never gave up! He..." Dean trailed off, as his father gave him a small, knowing smile.

"Right," John said. "It has nothing to do with weakness, Dean. It's just the mind's way of coping with everything you went through."

Dean absorbed this for long minutes, looking out into the moonlit night, feeling the comforting solidity of his father sitting next to him. "So, what do I do?" Dean finally asked.

"What you're doing," John said gently. "Talk to me, talk to Sammy. That might be easier now he can answer back. And after all, you've been here for him, haven't you? Ever since you woke up in the hospital he's never been more than a few feet... away..." John blinked, and Dean slumped as he saw his father's quick mind putting it together. "That's why," John said. "That's why Sam has been sticking so close to you. I thought..."

"You thought I was taking care of him," Dean said miserably. "But it was the other way around." He looked away, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks. "And I knew what you thought, and I let you think it. Because I was too ashamed to admit..."

"Didn't we just settle this?" John interrupted. "Dean, you've got nothing to be ashamed of. You and Sam..." He shook his head. "You're the two bravest people I know. Surviving what you did, doing whatever you had to do to keep it together, to stay present. I'm so proud of you both."

Dean felt a warm flush in his cheeks at his father's words, but at the same time there was a niggle of unease.

_doing whatever you had to do to keep it together_

What exactly did his father mean by that?

"Dad?" he said cautiously.

"Dean, I was a soldier," John said. "I know the bonds that two men can form in those kinds of circumstances. And I'm so glad..." John's voice grew hoarse and he cleared his throat, looking away for a moment. "I'm so glad you and Sammy had each other to get through it. That was my only comfort when you were gone. Hoping and praying that you two were together."

Dean's unease faded at the sincerity in John's voice and he frowned, trying to understand what his father was telling him.

"I've been worried as hell about you two for the last few weeks, but I think I was worried about the wrong things." John huffed a self deprecating laugh. "Sammy's talking again, and that's down to you. You've been having flashbacks, and Sam's been getting you through it. And that's the way it should be. I trust you boys to take good care of each other."

"We do, Dad," Dean said faintly. What was really going on here? Did he have the wrong end of the stick again; was he just hearing what he wanted to hear?

"Dean, you and Sammy will always be close. But you know, don't you, that this kind of... intensity will fade? I know how it all seems right now, but trust me. Things will get back to normal for both of you."

Dean nodded, thinking hard about what his father was saying. He meant that what he and Sam were feeling was strong because of what they had gone through. He was saying that when they felt better it would go away. And if he did know about the other stuff, the private stuff that happened in bed... Then he was saying that would go away in time as well.

"Until then I trust you to take care of Sam." John glanced over his shoulder at the screen door and raised his voice. "And I trust you to take care of your brother right back, Sammy."

Dean followed his gaze, and after a moment Sam's shadow edged around the door. "I wasn't listening," Sam said defensively. "I just happened to be passing by."

John glanced at him, and Dean snorted a helpless laugh at the spark in his father's eyes. John's patient face broke up and then he was laughing his deep, baritone laugh and Sam was shoving the screen door open and standing with his hands on his hips.

"Is anybody gonna help me with these dishes?" he demanded indignantly.

666

"So Dad thinks we're gonna grow out of this?" Sam asked. His hair was ruffled from the pillow, and his skin looked pale blue in the bright moonlight, gleaming through the thin curtains.

Dean rolled onto his back and pulled Sam's head to his shoulder.

"I think it's more he hopes we're gonna grow out of this," Dean admitted.

Sam lifted his head and gazed at him in the moonlight. "Are we?"

Dean wondered. What exactly were they supposed to be growing out of? The sex? The need to be close? The love that bound them tightly to one another?

It didn't seem likely. "Nah," Dean said.

Sam's shoulders relaxed. "Damn straight," he muttered, and laid his head back on his big brother's shoulder.

**Epilogue.**

John stood on the veranda and watched his sons tossing a baseball back and forth in the meadow in front of the cabin. Dean tried his best fastball, and Sam leapt for it, catching it in his new mitt and holding it high with a triumphant grin.

"Not bad!" Dean called, and Sam pushed his hair back and rubbed the ball on his shirt cockily.

Sam's hair was longer already, John thought, and damned if he wasn't taller as well. These weeks of rest had done him good. Dean kicked through the long grass and said something quietly to his brother that had Sam throwing his head back and laughing loudly.

His oldest, too, was finally looking better. He still suffered nightmares and the occasional flashback, just as Sam would still withdraw inside himself now and then. But he was slowly learning to talk to his brother and his father. And his father was learning to listen.

They looked so grown up, John thought. So tall and strong and grown up. Dean was a young man now, and Sam wasn't far behind him. And yet they were still just his boys underneath.

Probably always would be.

"Dad!" Dean called, and the boys jogged over to the foot of the stairs. "Someone's coming."

A plume of dust rose up from the end of the long drive, and John shielded his eyes as a worn old truck came into view.

"It's okay," he told his sons, noting with approval the alert set of their stances, the way they stood shoulder to shoulder. "It's Bobby, I was expecting him."

"Hey, Winchesters!" Bobby called as he pulled up next to the Chevy. "Happy Birthday, Sammy!"

"Sam," Sam corrected with a smile, stepping forward as Bobby swung out of the car and thrust his hand out.

"He's too grown up to be a Sammy any more," Dean explained, taking his own turn shaking Bobby's hand.

"John," Bobby said with a nod, and John nodded back. He and Bobby had thrown their share of words and fists over the years, but the man had come through for John when he needed him, calling and offering his help as soon as word got around that the boys were missing.

Folks had called from all over. Even in the midst of his fear for his sons, John had been surprised. He hadn't known he had so many friends.

"You boys look okay," Bobby said. "Looks like this place is doing you good."

"Come in," Dean said. "I'm finally off my medication, so maybe Dad will loosen up and let me have a beer, now we have a visitor."

"And it's my birthday, so maybe I can have one too," Sam said hopefully.

"Yeah, Sam," John reminded him. "Your _fifteenth_ birthday."

"Speaking of which," Bobby said, circling his truck and pulling open the passenger door. "I bought you a birthday present, Sam."

He straightened with a grin, and Sam grew still, surprise rounding his eyes.

"A puppy," he breathed, almost leaping the hood of the truck as he hurried around it.

"She's a golden retriever," Bobby told him, laying the puppy in the boy's arms. Sam immediately buried his face in her blonde coat, hugging her to his chest.

John could feel Dean's anxious eyes on him, and when Sam looked up there was worry written on his face. There was also a trace of his old stubborn defiance, and curiously, John was glad to see it. Sammy just wouldn't be Sammy unless he had that chin of his up and was preparing to butt heads over something.

"It's okay, Sam," John said, to put their fears to rest. "I called Bobby up a few weeks ago and asked him to look out a likely pup."

Amazed surprise dawned on Sam's face, and his eyes sought his brother's incredulously.

"Really, Dad?"

"Really."

Dean's sigh of relief was probably audible only to his father, but his grin lit up his whole face as he met Sam at the front of the car and laid a hand on the puppy's head.

"She's gorgeous," he said, and Sam beamed.

"She's a fine pup," Bobby confirmed. "A little bit crazy, but she'll grow out of that."

"What're you gonna call her?" Dean asked, petting the dog's silky ears. Bobby climbed the stairs and stood next to John, looking on as the boys dropped cross-legged to the grass and stood the pup between them.

"I must be nuts," John said, as the squirming bundle nuzzled Sam's gentle hands.

"Every boy should have a dog," Bobby said firmly. "Besides, look at them."

The puppy had silky paws planted on Dean's chest and was licking his chin, and John had to revise his opinion about his son being all grown up when Dean chuckled and fell backwards into the long grass. Sam flung himself down as well, and the puppy romped happily between the two of them.

"You done good, Johnny," Bobby murmured.

John thought he was probably talking about giving in and letting Sam have his puppy. Maybe even that he meant bringing the boys here and giving them a summer of peace.

Or just maybe he was talking about those two miracles down there. His sons. Mary's sons. And the fact that John was finally figuring out that they were everything in the world that was important.

"Yeah," John agreed.

**The End **


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